


Child of Destruction

by Mother_of_Monsters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, M/M, Magical Realism, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 70,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Monsters/pseuds/Mother_of_Monsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain is not the only burden John Watson carries. Sherlock isn't helpful in that respect. After all, the all-knowing detective doesn't believe in monsters.</p><p>**Please do not redistribute my works to other sites such as goodreads or ebookstree without my express permission**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, I've had this idea rattling around in my head for days now and I just felt like it was something I needed to share. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Some of this might be slightly OOC (I'm not really sure sometimes) so feel free to call me on it if you think I'm being too far-fetched. You don't have to be too kind in your reviews, I actually believe critique is the greatest form of encouragement, but please try and refrain from childish displays of cruelty?
> 
> I know it's taken as a given around here, but I just wish to reiterate: I do not own any characters you recognize from the BBC show Sherlock. Any you don't recognize belong to me alone.
> 
> **EDIT: I'm appalled that I have to add this, but please do not redistribute my works to other sites such as goodreads or ebookstree without my express permission**

If he had to pinpoint the exact moment that he'd known his lot in life was to live in constant pain, it was the night his father had come home drunk as a lord and smacked his mother so hard she passed out. He was only seven that night, and his sister was eleven, and neither of them had been safe from his father's wrath. It wasn't clear what had actually started the near slaughter, but what had ended it was the arrival of the police just as his vision faded to black.

That was the first time he saw the White Lady. It wasn't Her title, or even Her name, but he would always think of Her as the White Lady, even when he grew old enough to understand exactly what She was. Laying eyes on Her, at that moment, even as young as he was, he knew his life had changed.

When he woke up in the hospital and saw Her eyes staring at him out of the face of the smiling nurse checking his vitals, he wasn't sure if his nausea was drug- or fear-induced. She patted him on the head, like his mother used to do when he got a good grade on a test, and then disappeared into the ward. He'd never seen that nurse again.

Then there was the time he'd protected Harry, who had just revealed her sexual preferences to his incredulous mother and step-father. Step-father had wordlessly taken off his belt and Mother had lifted a wooden spoon from the counter. It was pure adrenaline that allowed him to throw his 12-year-old body over his 16-year-old sister's, allowing him to absorb the worst of their blows. The White Lady had been waiting for him when darkness fell behind his eyes.

It was in the ambulance this time that he woke up to Her eyes, soft and sad in the face of a young black woman. She held his hand until the gurney was pulled into the A&E of the local hospital. As he'd stared into those eyes, he'd sworn he would never reveal anything to his parents about his sexual preferences.

In med school, his first girlfriend left him for his sister. The next year, his second girlfriend left him for his roommate. The third year, his first boyfriend suffered a psychotic break and shot him. Luckily, he was already in the hospital doing his internship rounds, but he still couldn't fight the blackness that swept away his vision.

Somehow, that time was different. He was angry this time, furious even, and he'd ranted for what felt like hours while the White Lady reclined beneath a red-trunked, cyan-leaved tree of awkward dimensions. She had been very understanding, affectionately concerned for his well-being. He remembered Her long, skeletal arms wrapping around him in a secure hug that broke him into a sobbing mess.

A new purpose had filled him when he woke and stared into Her eyes in the face of a pretty blonde doctor. Like a concerned mother She kissed his forehead sweetly before disappearing into the stark white corridor. He would not let this continue, he would not become a slave to the pain. He would become a force against it, in defiance of it, and he would never allow himself to break again.

Joining the Army at Her behest had been the best decision of his life. The RAMC had welcomed him with open arms, especially with his high academic scores and his obvious potential. He'd moved up in the ranks very quickly, was considered - despite his quiet self-effacement - a hero to many men and women who had the luck to find their wounded selves beneath his caring hands.

Officers pushed medals onto his sash, despite his repetition that he'd only been doing his duty. Promotions were pushed through and approved, amidst vigorous protests that he was undeserving. His brothers- and sisters-in-uniform were nearly falling over themselves to follow his orders. Some were falling over themselves to get into his bed.

The nurse he allowed himself to date shot herself in the head during a shelling, unable to deal with the stress any longer. The orderly he'd fallen into bed with one night was caught in a suicide bombing two days later, and the smile on the younger man's face as he'd left the tent that morning was burned forever into his mind. Those who died beneath his hands haunted his dreams, no matter how much alcohol he poisoned himself with or how exhausted his shifts left him.

But he wasn't invincible, no matter how much the men under his command, or in command of him, insisted. Damned close to it, yes, but he knew that one well-aimed shot or one successful explosion could change that in an instant. He had no delusion of his own mortality, and took many precautions to keep himself wary. Even that didn't stop him from being shot in the back by a racist Sergeant while he was dragging a dying Afghani boy into camp.

The pain was intense, of course - his entire shoulder and chest shrieked with it, but he repeated the words of the White Lady like a prayer as he dragged the fading boy across the slippery sands, the scent of blood and dust sharp in his nose. 'It's only pain,' he repeated to himself as he bled, refusing to let anyone even consider helping him until the child had been seen to. One of the men sent out into the desert to retrieve him turned as the Sergeant barreled into the hospital tent and held up his M16 shouting that he would fire.

He wasn't aware if he'd thought at all, but suddenly the world had gone clear as crystal as he glanced at the bellowing Sergeant. With practiced ease he whipped the revolver from his comrade's holster, leveled it, and fired. 'To the End with you,' he'd breathed softly in a voice not his own, watching without emotion as the Sergeant's head whipped back from the force of the bullet as it drove through his skull.

Only snippets of memory remained after that, like some weird movie montage. The shocked faces of his comrades, introducing his face to the sandy floor, the searing pain, the sound of his colleagues frantically trying to save his life. They fixed his shoulder as well as they could, but fever took him the next day and spun him around like a top in a tornado.

The fever brought the darkness this time, and he decided on seeing the White Lady that he could no longer suffer through this kind of abuse. It was nothing personal, he loved saving lives and all, but with a ruined shoulder he would be sent home to wallow in pain and uselessness. She understood, as always, and hugged him tightly while wishing him good luck.

Eyes opening to yet another hospital, Her eyes peered at him through an aging candy striper. Patting him on the head She kissed his cheek and whispered how much She would miss him. It was the last time he thought about Her, or much of anything for that matter, until he bumped into an old friend in the park.

Mike certainly had changed from their school days, but he was just as cheery as he'd been back then. It was an odd coincidence that, when his luck was running out, an old school chum popped into his life with the answer to his prayers. Deciding not to think to hard about it, he agreed to meet Mike's friend and followed him towards their Alma Mater teaching hospital at his new steady, limping pace.

Never before had he met a man like Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant in his capability to read the lives of people by their clothes and belongings, yet completely lacking in some primary school and pop culture knowledge, Sherlock was just the punch of adrenaline he'd been missing since being invalided home. The man was bloody addicted to danger and puzzles (dangerous puzzles being his favorite), and he seemed to have no sense of self preservation.

It was so thrilling to be back in the proverbial saddle that his limp disappeared. On especially cold days, his shoulder might ache fiercely but, nothing a little paracetamol couldn't fix. Sherlock ran him ragged, but he gamely rose to the challenge. He liked having a friend like Sherlock Holmes, even if he wasn't entirely sure the word 'friend' could truly be applied. Many of his own problems, his own insecurities, dimmed to worthlessness as he and the consulting detective rushed around London.

The greatest part of the companionship was forgetting all about the war and the pain of his life, the nightmares dwindling under the stress of exhaustion. Most of all, he forgot about the White Lady, who never appeared to him in dreams, never spoke to him in whispers in the hospital corridors or peered at him from the eyes of morticians. She left him alone as he had requested, until the night everything went wrong.

Seeing Sherlock about to swallow the suicide pill brought all the anger and rage back to fiery life in his veins. Though he wasn't really Her servant anymore, the old words slipped quietly from his tongue as he leveled his Browning at the window and aimed for the cabbie. The shot was perfect, as it always was whenever he invoked Her, and the cabbie fell backwards. He fled the building as Sherlock spun around in confusion.

He found himself invoking Her often after that, especially when he'd been strapped into that stupid bomb. Begging to Her silently to keep him safe, to keep Sherlock safe, to swallow their enemies into Her dark abyss. She never spoke to him, though, keeping Her promise not to trouble him until he passed on again into black sleep.

Then came the Fall. So much pain, too much, he couldn't breathe, couldn't sleep, couldn't think. Sherlock's drop from the roof left his heart shattered in a billion pieces on the concrete. Never before had he been so attached to someone, felt such all-consuming anguish, as he had for the greatest man he'd ever known.

The limp returned, so did the useless therapist. People looked at him with sad eyes and told them how sorry they were, not that Sherlock had died, but that he'd been so taken in by a madman. It was the first time in a very long time that he allowed himself to feel the full wrath of his own anger and hatred, snapping at people with vicious barbs to drive them and their misunderstanding stupidity as far away as he could.

When he found Sherlock's belongings being packed away by the landlady, he instantly began to unpack the boxes, giving her a look of such pure sorrow she started to cry. She left him to rearrange the flat exactly as they'd left it, refusing to let up hope that the man was dead. He hadn't even gotten the chance to tell him how much he'd meant to an injured ex-army soldier who had nothing and no one to live for.

That night he spread a tarpaulin over the floor, carefully moving furniture out of the way, and he dropped to his knees with a painful grunt smack in the middle. Unrolling his personal field surgery kit, he selected the largest scalpel he owned and neatly slit his arms open. Before his life ran out, he scrambled to smear Her symbol on the floor, and bowed his head to call out across the abyss for the comfort of the White Lady.


	2. Chapter 1

The distant fire fight was nothing more than white noise these days as John Watson carefully sliced through the meat of a fallen man's leg. In there somewhere was a bullet, and damn if he wasn't going to locate it. Pushing and prodding, he caught the coppery glimpse of a jacket, and without further preamble dug in with forceps until he could grasp it. A quick check of vital signs and positioning, followed by a sharp tug, and the bullet was free.

"Sew him up, Alyssia," John said calmly, dropping his tools onto the tray. "Nice and even stitching now, we don't want him to have too horrible of a scar."

"Yes, Sir," the young blonde answered, flashing him a winning smile.

The flirtation was ignored as he ignored almost everything else these days. He whipped off his bloody gloves and tossed them into a nearby bio-hazard bin without actually looking at it and moved out of the room. A deep breath of dusty, dry air filled his lungs as he aimed himself for his bunk. Sleep was desperately needed, he'd been up for 72 bloody hours now, and it was high time the crash caught up with him.

The tent was empty, mostly because no one really wanted to bunk with him. There were rumors about Captain John Watson, MD of the Royal Fusiliers, and no one wanted them proved right or wrong. The soldiers praised, cherished, and feared the good doctor, and gave him space out of respect. If they didn't, they dreaded him becoming what they deemed 'a butcher', the kind of doctor who simply removed a limb instead of attempting to save it.

John didn't mind the distance, enjoyed it actually, it was a far cry from the last time he'd been in the damned desert before his injured discharge. It hadn't taken him much to get shipped back out to the Middle East, even injured, when the recruiters saw his background. Surgeons were becoming scarce, and, as one of the best, he was welcomed with open arms.

Satisfaction made him sleepy, and he yawned mightily before drifting off. Exhaustion like this meant he wouldn't be disturbed by the usual nightmares. If anything, he'd probably find himself awakened by the cries of people shouting for a surgeon when more wounded were dragged into camp. He couldn't wait until this damned war was over.

Not that he couldn't have left at any time. All he really had to do was get injured again. John wasn't ready to go back to the memories stored in the empty flat though, so he persevered in the heat of the summer. It had been 3 years since that day when his greatest friend had tumbled through the sky. It made him unusually tired just thinking about it.

With that last thought before Morpheus gripped him in a tight hug, he dreamed of that day so long ago when he watched Sherlock Holmes drop off the roof of St. Bart's and land on the sidewalk below. It wasn't the first time he'd had this particular nightmare, but it was the first time the White Lady had seen fit to appear beside the broken body on the side walk. She wasn't much of a dream stalker, preferring to speak to him through other people.

Her voice was smooth and rich, like melted Belgian chocolate, "Hello, Jonathan."

Wiping tears from his eyes he peered up at her. "Hello, My Lady."

She cradled his face in Her spider-like hands. "I know you find seeing me here unusual. But since I was unsure how you would react to my words, I thought this was the easiest way to speak with you."

"What is it?" He settled himself on his knees before Her, leaning into Her touch as She stroked his cheeks.

"I have scoured all the worlds - above, below, and in-between," Her eyes slid to the broken body at Her feet, "and I have found no trace of him. His footsteps have never echoed through my halls."

Shock turned him numb. It couldn't be true. He'd watched Sherlock plummet to his death, held his wrist as his pulse stopped. That he could have survived and not come home to the flat, not come home to him, was impossible!

"No," he choked out.

Her dark eyes were sad, but firm. "He has never set foot on the Path."

Tears of anger, of betrayal, fell from his eyes. The bastard had lied to him, put him through all that pain, and was still alive somewhere? Why the hell had he done that? Why hadn't Sherlock trusted him, warned him, something, anything?

Rage bubbled beneath the sadness, roiling in his heart and veins like a lava floe. John had bound his soul back to the White Lady, bound his very existence to Her, become one of Her monsters again for nothing. When he found Sherlock, he was going to kill him.

A smirk slowly lifted the corner of Her mouth as She watched the fury burning in him. She kissed his forehead sweetly. "I am sorry, little one. I know how much it must pain you. But think on this - perhaps he had a good reason?"

John closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back on his haunches. "I'm still going to knock him silly if I see the stupid git."

Laughter like the tingling of a thousand silver bells slipped passed Her lips as She released him from Her grip. She smoothed the shoulders of his jacket. "Well, after you've taught him a lesson, I will release you from your vow if that is what you wish."

No other deity could compare to the White Lady, no matter how benevolent or powerful they seemed. John had read many religious texts, and no being compared to Her. Her servants followed Her not out of blind devotion, but out of convenience, and if they wished to go their separate ways She gave them Her blessing for a long life and happiness. They would return to Her in the end, everything did, and once more the Choice would be offered for them to take or refuse. If they refused, so be it, they could go their merry way.

"Thank you for your kindness, ma'am," John kissed her hands politely, "But I don't know what I can do to without them to keep him safe."

Another clear laugh. "Then keep them, Jonathan. You are one of my most devoted and loyal servants and I would hate to lose you again."

"Even," he closed his eyes, whispering, "even if I lo-if I'm with..." Hell, even in his dreams he couldn't admit it.

Loud and long, bubbling with mirth that made his whole being feel lighter, She laughed and shook him lightly by the shoulders. "I will say this only once, dear boy, and I shall say it so plainly and rudely you shall never consider asking such a foolish thing again." She grasped his chin firmly and held his eyes with Hers. "First, Love is not my area of expertise. Second, I couldn't give two shits who or what you put your dick in."

Embarrassment turned his cheeks red and he started to laugh loudly. She never was one to mince words; bluntness was always preferred to prevarication. Though She might not reveal everything, what She did say was always true. If there was information She couldn't reveal, you were told right there that She was withholding and it either wasn't your business, or wouldn't be pertinent until further on down the line.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said once he recovered from his laughter. "Do you know where he is?"

"Not at the moment." She pressed a long finger to Her lips. "However, I can tell you that your separation will not last very much longer. Events move apace that will drive you both together again."

Her tone was one of warning, though what She was warning him about he couldn't say. Just because She didn't lie didn't mean She couldn't be cryptic. John took Her words to heart, though, and some of the heaviness that had been driving him to darker and darker places in his mind began to dissipate.

"You should wake up now, Jonathan." She patted his cheek.

He jack-knifed up in bed just as a soldier whipped back the flap of his tent. "Sir! You're needed!"

Grunting in lieu of an answer he hastily tugged his pants back on and pulled a shirt over his head as he jogged back to the battle field hospital. The man on his heels explained that the firefight had ended with a loud explosion and there were so many wounded that no doctor could be spared. John said nothing, simply nodded his head to acknowledge that he'd understood.

This night was going to take forever, he sighed to himself as he choked down a cup of coffee. He didn't even bother donning a surgeon's coat, after all it would just get bloody anyway, and everyone in the tent knew who he was. Scrambling orderlies gave way to him, nurses gave succinct answers to the questions they knew he would ask, and the mobile wounded either hobbled away or helped carry the incoming patients.

John let the fog of adrenaline surround him, shouting for the tools he would need to save this man's leg, or remove this man's bleeding stump of an arm, or stitch up that man's abdomen before his intestines spilled out. He lost himself in the work, the words of the White Lady cuddling themselves down in a corner of his mind to bring him that little bit of comfort he'd need to sustain him through the following days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some of my facts are inaccurate. Just put it down to creative license and the fact that I'm a dumb American?


	3. Chapter 2

It was an oddly quiet Sunday when a man in sniper uniform was dragged into the camp by 6 members of an elite extraction team, and 2 suited men who all but screamed 'government official'. The sniper, they explained to the Commanding Officer General George Wilmington, was a wanted criminal with ties to terrorist activities. The General was outraged that one of his own men should be so traitorous and ordered him taken immediately to the bunker they used as a temporary prison.

One of the officials, who's tailored suit was a deep chocolate brown, refused such a thing, as the prisoner required treatment for a knee injury, and 2 of the extraction team as well as his colleague dressed in black were in need of medical attention. The General, while unhappy, knew he couldn't refuse such a request once the suited man's identity had been confirmed. He didn't want to be court-martialed for disobeying a direct order.

It didn't, however, mean he couldn't take some precautions, or that he had to give them a good doctor. The General smiled as oily as he could manage at the brown-suited man, "We will clear a small bunker for all of you, that way there's no chance of him escaping. I'll pick the doctor myself, even if it means pulling one out of rotation."

"How very obliging of you, General," the brown suited man said indifferently, "I am sure you will choose the best man of your medical staff."

"I'll choose the best man for the job, yes, as for the best of my staff," George tutted, "he isn't the most obliging fellow, and I doubt his coarseness would be welcome to your colleague."

"You will give us the best man of your staff," the black-suited man spoke with a touch of steel in his deep voice, "And you will tell him to behave himself. Unless, of course, you have some sort of unmilitary fondness of him that allows him to get away with being unobliging. Like that you have with your adjutant, perhaps?"

Sputtering, Gen Wilmington turned red as a tomato, "How dare you suggest...!"

"General," the brown-suited man put a restraining hand on his colleague's arm, not letting go even when the man hissed in pain, "Please go about your preparations with that bunker. I shall locate the hospital myself."

Leaving the General huffing and puffing in indignation, the brown-suited man tugged his colleague outside and steered him back to their waiting team. "You know, dear brother," he began, "you really should learn when to curb your mouth."

"Spare me the lecture," the black-suited man snapped, yanking his arm from his brother's hold and immediately regretting the movement. Blood began to seep from his bicep and he wrapped a long fingered hand around the wound to put pressure on it.

"Let's find the hospital tent, men," the brown-suited man said calmly, "before one or more of us bleeds out."

As they trekked around the camp, searching for the hospital the almighty roar of a helicopter flying overhead nearly flattened them to the sand. Judging by the immediate responses of the soldiers and the cries of 'Surgeon' echoing around them it was landing with a load of wounded men. The extraction team surrounded the suited men and the prisoner, escorting them in the direction of the distant thrumming of aircraft blades.

The hospital tent was fairly large, the bulk of it being sickbeds with 2 flapped-off sections on either end that worked as a waiting room and an operating room. Men swarmed about the helicopter with gurneys, oxygen tanks, and defibrillators like ants attacking a grasshopper. So efficient were they that even moving at a swift pace the group of men surrounding their prisoner arrived barely in time to watch the helicopter take off again.

Upon entering the suited men noted that the waiting area had been sacrificed to make room for more beds, those whose injuries were not life threatening were seated in chairs or on floor cushions in a single corner. Beds lined the interior of the room, with barely a foot of space between them. The rear canvas showed the silhouettes of people performing amputations, while the surgeons seemed to be working right at the bedsides of their patients.

A red-faced nurse jogged up and saluted, "Sergeant O'Mallory, sir. I'm to assess the severity of your wounds."

"Go on then," the brown-suited man said calmly.

Brisk but focused, she studied each of the wounded men of the party, tagging their arms with strips of different coloured tape. When the black-suited man flat out refused to allow anything on his suit jacket she rolled her eyes and without a second thought threaded the tape through his button hole and tied it off. Suddenly, a man began screaming in the rear of the tent and everyone in the whole room seemed to blanch.

"Sergeant! Fetch the Captain!" someone screamed frantically from behind the rear canvas, and the Sergeant didn't even bother saluting as she bolted out the front flap.

Someone covered in blood, clearly panicked, began running around shrieking through the main portion of the hospital. Everyone shied away from him, even the suited men, although they also noticed the lunatic was wearing a surgeon's coat and mask. The brown-suited man hoped this wasn't who the General had alluded to as the best of his staff. The black-suited man turned sideways at the sight, as if deciding whether or not to run.

A small, sturdily built blonde man wearing a black tank top and camouflage pants thudded through the front flap and nearly barreled the crazed man over. One heavy handed slap silenced the screams and the blonde shook him fiercely. "That's enough of that, Tobias! You're a bloody doctor, for God sake, man! Think of all these patients!"

Sergeant O'Mallory grabbed the now quieted man by the arm and began to half-drag him out of the tent. "Come on, Toby, let's get you to bed," she soothed, "Been up too long you have. Let's get out of here, eh?"

"Take him to his bunk and tie him there if you have to, Sergeant," the blonde man nearly growled, "I'll not have him panicking the whole damned camp!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Captain!" the voice from beyond the curtain shrilled again, "We've got a heavy bleeder back here!"

The blonde took off without a glance around him, his voice filling the uneasy silence, "We are medical professionals Corporal! We do not have the luxury of panic! You'd better all be doing your jobs when I get back there!"

He disappeared behind the curtain and the brown-suited man allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. Something told him that the Captain was the one who the General had been speaking of, and not the gibbering mess that had been escorted out. That thought was much more agreeable, "Shall we proceed?"

Turning to his companion the brown-suited man reached out just as his brother lurched unsteadily, as if his knees had gone weak. The black-suited man stared at the far canvas wall, skin pale as milk, trembling slightly. "It can't be," he whispered desperately.

"What is it? Brother?"

"It can't be, Mycroft. How can it be?"

"Sherlock, of what are you talking?"

"That captain," his lips were trembling, "That was John."

Mycroft Holmes started and whipped his head towards the canvas wall, "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm bloody sure," his brother hissed, "I'd know him anywhere! The scar, the limp, the voice, it's him!"

"Take it easy, Sherlock," Mycroft soothed, patting his brother's uninjured arm, "perhaps your just seeing things. You are in pain you know."

A nurse jogged over and flashed a pretty smile at both men, "I'll be taking you and the Lieutenant there over on the right, and the other two with the green stripes will be going to the left. I hope you like talking, because there isn't much else I can offer to help you pass the waiting time."

Mycroft looked down his nose at her, "You, madam, will tell the Captain that he is to see to us personally. General's orders."

She looked him up and down for a long moment, fidgeting, "Captain's a bit busy right now. With Doctor Kennick out of commission we're barely half-staffed. You'd have to wait."

"Fetch him now, or I shall summon the General."

Sighing she jogged away, her shoes scraping in the sand on the tent floor. Instead of returning promptly, a burly looking man in scrubs hustled out to them, "Captain sends his regards" he gasped, "but right now a few minor bullet wounds aren't his biggest priority. He says you can wait, you can let a nurse handle you, or you can bugger off and find someone else to pester."

The man's audacity intrigued Mycroft greatly, "Your Captain's name?"

"Captain John H Watson, MD, Royal Fusiliers, Sir."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, his knees threatening to abandon him. "We'll wait," he ground out.

The man saluted, "Sir."

Once more Mycroft slid an arm around his brother's waist when his legs wobbled dangerously. "Sherlock," he started.

"No, we'll wait," the younger man hissed, "I'm not dying of blood loss. I don't want any of these common soldiers trying to patch me up."

The elder Holmes lifted an eyebrow at that remark. He found his brother's ex-flatmate rather common indeed, except for his attachment to Sherlock, of course, but he held his tongue before stating it aloud. Sherlock didn't like many people, and John was really the only friend he could claim. Still, regardless of the man's loyalty he was as common as they came.

Two hours went by, and by then Sherlock had begun to sweat from the pain. A lovely blonde nurse who had led them to a quiet corner nearest the surgery came around and offered him some water and paracetamol. Sherlock downed it without thought, grimacing at the dirty taste of the water. Their prisoner, the last of Moriarty's band of criminal assassins, had begun to moan and whine about his injuries, and not even the wicked looks of the uninjured extraction team members could silence him.

The hospital tent had calmed considerably half an hour after Captain Watson had arrived. Sherlock could see his silhouette through the canvas curtain moving decisively and hear his friend's calm but firm voice dictating orders to the staff. This was John in his element, steady and capable, shaking off panic and fear like a duck shucks water from its back.

That familiar voice alone made Sherlock relax. He remembered coming back to the flat after taking care of the first two of the Moriarty assassin clan, seeing all of his own things still in their places as if nothing had changed. Most of John's things were there still too, and seeing them still in the flat had made him painfully sad. He'd seen John going to the gravesite regularly for nearly a year before the man just stopped coming.

Mrs Hudson, who he'd nearly given a heart attack, had told him that John had gone on holiday. He'd had to phone Lestrade (who nearly had a stroke) to find out that truth - John had gone back to war. Lestrade warned him that John was not the same man he'd been before Sherlock's untimely death, and then told him it was John who had brought the detective inspector the necessary evidence to clear Sherlock's name nearly a year prior.

It was hard to approach Mycroft and beg forgiveness while simultaneously trying to use his brother's connections to locate the last assassin. Sherlock had a feeling he would never live it down. Especially when he'd found out that John's last suspected deployment was in the same area as the final assassin. The younger Holmes had been nearly beside himself, worried that all his work, all the pain he'd put his friends and family through, had been for naught. If they didn't get the assassin before he got John, Sherlock really would throw himself off a building (after shooting the assassin of course).

The rear canvas slapped open and a wet-armed Captain Watson stepped out and over to the extraction team member who had taken a bullet through the leg and been tourniquetted. Sherlock forced himself to hold his tongue, not wishing to distract the doctor from his patient. Nor did he wish to miss this opportunity to see the Army octor in action.

"AK?" the doctor asked.

"Yes Sir."

John hummed and frowned, ripping the hole in the man's pants wider to examine the wound further. "Light!" he shouted, and a nurse immediately appeared beside him holding a torch over his shoulder.

"Clean shot through, no heavy artery damage," he seemed to be speaking to himself, "Should be all right to just sew you up. Well done whoever did the tourniquet by the way. Alyssia," he turned to the nurse holding the torch, "give me the light and fetch me some sewing kit. Bring the forceps too just in case. Tell Madeline I require her embroidery skills."

"Yes, Captian," the nurse gave John a flirtatious wink. Sherlock nearly bit his tongue clenching his teeth to keep from shouting at her. This was no time for flirting, especially not with his friend!

John seemed to take no notice of her interest though, having bent to examine the assassin's knee before she had even answered. "Bring me a scalpel too!" he shouted after the blonde girl, who saluted back in answer.

He looked the assassin in the eyes and said,"The bullet is lodged between your kneecap and joint, and it looks like some of the fabric of your trousers has gotten into the wound. I'm going to have to cut your pant leg open, then I'm going to give you a local anesthetic and remove the bullet and cloth. You're going to be in a lot of pain, when the anesthetic wears off but you'll mend eventually."

"Thanks, guv," the assassin smiled wickedly, "glad to know you ain't a butcher."

"Did someone not tell you that I outrank you, or do you think that because I'm nice and you're injured I'll overlook insubordination?" One of John's eyebrows lifted up in askance.

The assassin pouted, "Sorry Sir."

"That's better."

By the time his examination was finished Alyssia had returned with a black nurse who Sherlock assumed was Madeline. Madeline gave John a quirky smile before bending to her task of numbing and sewing up the extraction team member. Alyssia handed the scalpel to John and watched attentively as he deftly sliced open the man's pant leg. He hit a snag at the seam and handed the scalpel back, gripping both sides of the fabric as if to tear it open.

The assassin lunged forward and tore the scalpel from the nurse's hand, driving it towards the doctor's head. In the blink of an eye, the doctor jammed another scalpel from who knew where through the rapidly approaching hand, pinning it to the injured leg below. Howling, the assassin tried to tear out the blood slicked tool with his free appendage.

John cold-cocked him with a furious left hook to the jaw and the man fell unconscious. Calm as you please John sounded like nearly being stabbed was as run-of-the-mill an occurrence as getting a pizza delivered, "Alyssia, fetch Lieutenant Barstowe. We're going to need restraints."

The blonde was white-lipped and wide-eyed with terror, "Y-ye-yes C-captain!"

Using the forceps, the doctor yanked the scalpel none too gently out of the man's hand and leg setting it aside to frown and mutter at the knee injury. Madeline, finished with her own soldier, came up alongside the doctor and shoved a needle of something into the unconscious man's neck. "Should keep him out for a few hours, Sir."

"Thank you Madeline. Mind mending that hand while I deal with this knee?"

"Not at all, Sir."

While Madeline examined the wounded hand, John briskly whipped the bullet and fabric from the knee wound, beginning his own stitching as Madeline finished hers. She handed him a length of gauze and helped lift the knee so he could wrap it. As they tied it off, Lieutenant Barstowe, a heavy-set man half an inch shorter than John, arrived with 4 sets of cuffs. Two he tossed to Madeline, and she set to work on one leg and arm while the Lieutenant cuffed the other side.

John moved on to the next extraction team soldier, calm as you please, and examined the man's arm and wrist with gentle hands. "Fractured wrist and ulna, nothing too terrible. You'll need an x-ray though before we know for sure. Hop off the bed and Madeline here will take you to the machine. Alyssia?"

The blonde appeared nearby looking nervous, "Yes, Sir?"

"Bring me some small gauge thread, and a small needle?"

"Yes, Sir."

The girl was back in a flash and smiling tentatively at John again, moving too close for Sherlock's comfort, "I'm sorry about the..."

"You're dismissed, Alyssia," the doctor's voice was disinterested at best, "don't come back until your next shift. Why don't you check on Toby while you're out?" Pouting like a young child, Alyssia turned away and trotted off. Sherlock felt a bit of pride that John had not been fooled by the stupid girl. In the his mind, she was nearly as much to blame as the assassin.

John didn't speak as he turned and looked Sherlock in the eye for the first time since the Fall. War time had been good to John physically, putting the smaller man's body back in fighting trim. The black tank top showed off the indents of his abdominal muscles, and the jagged scar of his shoulder served as a reminder to all who saw it that he was a man who knew his bullet wounds, knew pain, and had worked past it. The harshest change was his pleasant blue/grey eyes which had changed to a sharp, steely slate - a torrent of emotional pain. He looked so tired; Sherlock's heart wrenched nearly as much as it had during their last phone conversation before he'd jumped off the roof.

Sherlock knew how he looked, far too skinny and pale. His cheeks had sunken in slightly and there were probably dark circles beneath his eyes. He was sure his own blue orbs were slightly dulled with pain and exhaustion. John would observe these things as medically important details instead of a way to read what his friend had been up to.

"Take that stupid suit jacket off. It's nearly boiling outside and you're wearing a bloody Armani?" John's voice was tight, almost callous, "I hope your shirt is at least short sleeved."

Sherlock carefully shed his jacket as Mycroft spoke up, "It's so good to see you in your element, Dr Watson." The elder Holmes' gave the good doctor an arrogant smirk, which disappeared when John leveled a gaze at him.

"Mycroft."

The icy chill in John's voice would have made a polar bear want to go on vacation in Antarctica to warm up. Sherlock shivered involuntarily, glancing at the incapacitated assassin 2 beds over. John glanced at him with a familiar expression, a silent lift of the eyebrow that clearly said 'well, get on with it'. Sheepishly the younger Holmes undid his silk shirt (which to his chagrin was not short sleeved), pulling off one sleeve to uncover his bullet wound.

"Just a graze," John said dismissively. Sherlock had to choke back a gasp as his friend's rough-skinned hands gently turned his arm this way and that. The detective felt like his skin was tingling. "I'll numb it and stitch it up. Don't move."

He lifted a small syringe and carefully injected Sherlock with a drug. While he waited for it to set in, he deftly threaded the needle, "So."

When no answer was forthcoming, John locked eyes with him again. He wasn't even looking as his hands gently began to stitch Sherlock's arm. There was a world of pain, betrayal, and sadness in those grey eyes and it took all of Sherlock's considerable control over his emotions not to grab hold of his friend's shoulders and shake him.

"So."

John smirked, "Not like you to be quiet. Normally by now you'd be acting like your usual insufferable self and shouting insults at everyone in a 3 foot radius. No smart remarks left? No more lies to tell?"

The bitterness in his voice made Sherlock feel very small, "What would you like me to say?"

The medic shook his head, falling silent as he carefully tied off the thread. John finished wrapping the arm in silence, his hands never less than gentle. It made Sherlock quiver inside, his stomach churning with anxiety, and he unconsciously leaned into the touch when John stroked the tape securing the gauze to check its hold. Packing up his things, Dr. Watson walked away without another word.

Sherlock felt momentarily abandoned and had to fight his body from shouting after the army surgeon's retreating back. Mycroft wrapped an arm around his other elbow and the younger man nearly leaped out of his skin trying to escape it. His elder brother looked at him in a condescending sort of way.

"What did you really expect, Sherlock?"

"I don't know."

Lieutenant Barstowe reappeared and snapped a crisp salute, "Sir, I'm to escort you and your men to a private bunker."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. After you."

Along with four other men who shouldered the still unconscious assassin onto a gurney and out into the slowly waning daylight, the Lieutenant walked them at a brisk pace to a low, white building. It was full of just enough cots to accommodate everyone, a small kitchenette, and a half bathroom. Mycroft beckoned to the Lieutenant and Sherlock followed them out of the building as the extraction team members that weren't injured secured the building.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Barstowe," Mycroft was saying calmly, just before he began telling the man that they would be requisitioning quite a few things to make the amenities more amenable. Sherlock noted the bored, stoic face the soldier was giving to his brother and tried to cover his smile with a sneeze. The younger Holmes could have cared less for the amenities, as long as he could find some peace and quiet and perhaps manage to corner John somewhere.

As if conjured from his thoughts, Sherlock watched his doctor leave the hospital and stalk to a small tent not far from the bunker itself. There was no way he was going to get a better opportunity, so he slipped back around Mycroft as if heading back inside before rushing around the opposite end of the concrete building. He'd never been more nervous than he was now, sneaking into his friend's tent.

The flap had barely closed behind him when he realized there was a gun pointed at his chest.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning, someone is going to get pretty mouthy so if you're offended by strong language you might want to brace yourself.

After staring at each other for almost 5 minutes, John cautiously reset the safety on his Browning, slipping it back beneath his pillow. He pulled himself stiffly up into a sitting position and stared at the fidgeting man before him. So many emotions whirled through his mind seeing that face - anger, betrayal, hope, longing.

Sherlock stared at him like a deer in headlights, his twisting hands and scanning eyes the only sign of emotion. He looked far too thin and parched, his cheeks had hollowed out, and there were heavy circles beneath those knowing blue eyes. Seeing him so wretched looking turned the rage boiling inside him into an inferno. Had the stupid git gone back to his old drug habits?

To the detective, John looked as if he'd been doing well. It almost made him angry; his death had driven his friend to war but instead of throwing himself into danger like a suicidal teen the man was physically thriving. What a terrible thought, that he would rather his death cause the death of his friend! Sherlock deleted the sentiment with a vengeance.

John's gaze was hard, "You look terrible."

"You look well."

"I look it," the doctor sighed heavily, "but I'm not."

Hesitantly Sherlock made his way over to the only chair in the tent and sank into it. He could tell by the Spartan furnishings that John spent very little time inside. In fact, the bed looked barely slept in and the chair still creaked with disuse. The doctor did not object his taking a seat, and turned himself until he sat just opposite the chair on the foot of the cot.

Sherlock took a deep breath, "Before you start shouting at me, may I explain?"

"I'm not going to shout at you," John looked almost incredulous at the thought.

The detective narrowed his eyes, "Of course you will, in due time. When you get angry the volume of your voice rises in relation to the extent of your feelings and the length of your rant."

John smirked, "I won't shout. I promise."

"So you say," Sherlock inclined his head towards the doctor (who grumbled something that sounded like 'this had better be good') before continuing, eyes darting everywhere except the grey orbs fixated on him. "Moriarty planned everything from the start, and he made sure I had no way out in the end except to kill myself. He sent 3 men to assassinate Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you if I didn't jump off that roof."

"So, you called his bluff and faked your death," John's voice sounded slightly more curious than angry.

"Yes," Sherlock locked his eyes onto John's again, taking heart by how well the doctor seemed to be taking the news, "On the phone, I tried to get you to leave because I wasn't sure if you'd ruin everything by realizing I wasn't actually deceased. If you weren't broken up about my death, then you might have gotten shot." He turned his head slightly and allowed a small smile to peek through, "I didn't expect the ramifications."

"Ramifications?"

Fidgeting again suddenly, Sherlock leapt up and began to pace back and forth. He didn't speak for a long minute, but when he did his voice was slightly rough, "It hurt. It hurt you more than I thought it would. It hurt me more than I thought it would." He ran his long, pale fingers through his hair, "But at least you'd be alive, even if you were in pain. Then I set out to find the people who Moriarty had hired to assassinate you three. It took a long time to find the first 2, and by then word reached me that I was posthumously exonerated and my name cleared."

He smiled down at John, "Thank you for that, by the way. Lestrade told me you never gave up on me."

"How could I give up on my best friend?"

Sherlock stared at him for another long moment unable to figure out how to react to that question then he collapsed back into the chair, "The man who tried to stab you in there was the third assassin. Mycroft," John growled at the sound of that name then subsided, "is taking him into custody so he can figure out exactly how far Moriarty's corruption reached." The detective cocked his head at the doctor, "What was that?"

John gave him a blank look that was probably saved for superior officers who thought they knew everything, "What was what?"

"You," he pointed at John, "growled when I said Mycroft's name. Why?"

This time it was John who fidgeted, rubbing his palms against his thighs, "It's nothing."

Sherlock leaned forward, "No, it isn't."

John let out a loud, exasperated sigh before rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable, "Really, it's...it's fine."

"John."

The sound of his own name in Sherlock's voice seemed to break some part of the wall surrounding John's emotions. He leaned forward and put his forehead into one hand, propping the other fist on his thigh. It seemed like he was struggling to breath.

"John," the detective insisted, putting a tinge of fondness into the name, "out with it."

Steel eyes bored into silvery blue as John, in a rough voice, said, "Guess who told Richard Brook all those little stories?"

Sherlock smiled for a few moments until the realization set in. Mycroft had told Moriarty all the information he'd needed to destroy everything Sherlock had worked so hard to build? He didn't want to believe it, didn't even want to consider it, because deep down somewhere inside his heart he still thought his brother loved him in his own way. That Mycroft, who had spent most of their lives protecting and restraining him, had been instrumental in his downfall?

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," John's voice was soothing, probably in response to the stricken look on Sherlock's face. "I was debating whether or not to tell you ever since I saw you in the hospital. I wanted to scream seeing him acting like he cared you were in pain."

Sherlock stared at the clenched jaw, the hands curled into fists, the tensed shoulders of his friend and felt a familiar warmth suffuse his bones. John Watson, always the protector. If John had been his brother, Sherlock knew nothing horrible would have ever happened to him. John would rather die than betray his friend, and he'd proved it numerous times. Mycroft had left him out in the cold, and here he was acting like nothing had happened. That would not do.

"That bloody bastard," Sherlock hissed, rising up like a spitting cobra. "He didn't tell me that, he didn't tell me anything about that!"

John stood up, blocking the way out of the tent with his considerably solid body. "Betrayal hurts, doesn't it?"

The smaller man's voice dripped with venom. It was not a tone Sherlock had ever heard from his friend, and it wasn't something he ever wanted to hear directed at him again. He stared down at the shaking finger John placed against his breast bone. The doctor had suddenly done a complete emotional 180, from kind to furious in under a second.

"You left me, you bastard, and the last thing I had to remember you by was a bloody telephone call that you told me was your suicide note. Right now, that pain you're feeling? I've been living with that pain for 3 years. Three fucking years, you enormous prat! I thought my only friend in the world was bloody dead, and then you show up here alive, in the middle of a fucking war, looking like a junkie fresh off a bender acting like nothing changed?"

As he'd promised, John did not shout. Instead disappointment and anguish dripped from his mouth as he spoke, his eyes stormy with unshed tears and fury that hadn't had an outlet for too long a time. Sherlock shrank in on himself under the onslaught, his own awkward emotions knocking around in his head making him shake and sweat. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut short when John poked him sharply in the breast bone.

"You don't get to speak or ask questions right now, I'm not finished berating you yet, you arrogant git. Perhaps," the soft tone turned scathing, "you should deduce whatever answers you want for yourself, you being the brilliant genius you always insist you are. You know, for a good observer of other people, you'd think you'd have better insight about your own damned well-being you stupid bastard."

Well, Sherlock thought as his pale cheeks flamed in indignation, wasn't that something. He comes back from the dead, explains everything, and all he gets in return are insults. See if he ever saved a certain someone's life ever again.

"But that's neither here nor there at the moment. What's important is that your pompous head is still attached to your fool neck, but who gives a toss, since you're apparently hell bent on destroying yourself in the first bloody place! Have you even bothered eating or was the bloody cocaine and heroine too much of a draw for you?"

The detective shoved John's hand from his chest, "I used opium once, thank you, and only because I needed to infiltrate a drug ring to find one of the assassins! Otherwise, I haven't…"

"Don't you bloody realize what you're doing to yourself? Every time you do any narcotic you nearly destroy your mind! Your brilliant, genius MIND! Where would you be without that, you fucking half-wit?"

Slowly John advanced forward his voice never rising above a conversational volume, but the disappointed, anguished tone that made it crack roughly here and there was making Sherlock feel more and more ashamed. The look in his eyes was startling, and Sherlock wondered if John realized how very frightening he could be. Sherlock wasn't very empathic, but John's anger was so palpable it felt like the smaller man was choking him.

"I can forgive a lot of things, but I cannot forgive that. All the pain you put me through, all the lies, everything, and when I see you, alive, after all that, you look like fucking death warmed over, how the hell am I supposed to forgive you? All the work we did getting you clean of everything and as soon as you're out of my sight you do it again? Really? I thought we were past all that!"

Apparently the healer in John was still running at full throttle. Leave it to the doctor to harp on more about drug use and its effects instead of the part where his friend had faked suicide. It was a rather impressive tirade if Sherlock was being honest.

"The fact that you're alive, even after putting me through that damned phone call and your bloody funeral and your bloody burial, pales in comparison to the fact that after all that work getting you off drugs you fell back into old habits! I don't give a toss that you did it to get close to a bloody suspect! What if you'd bloody overdosed? What am I supposed to do, bury you twice?"

Pain lanced through John's voice and Sherlock shuffled back until his calves pressed against the cot. He had expected John to feel angry and betrayed, he just didn't realize how fiercely the doctor would feel those emotions. Or how John feeling so terrible would effect his own emotions.

"You left me all alone, you asshole, with no hope and no help. The only people who even cared to speak to me were the homeless network. Even Lestrade gave up on you after a while. I didn't! I risked my neck for you, my medical license for you, over and over and you repay all that loyalty by making me think my only friend lied to me and then I had to watch him throw himself off a building? Then you show up alive but not even looking halfway healthy, and you expect, what? Me to roll over and follow you around like nothing happened? That's not how it works. I'll let you off the hook for the faked suicide because a) you're alive, and b) you had a legitimate reason to do it. I will not let you live down not taking care of yourself. And if you ever pull any harebrained stunt like this again without warning, I swear on my soul, you insufferable twat, that I will kill you myself, and it will be far, far worse than falling off a bloody building, you wanker."

The detective sunk down onto the cot, his knees weak from emotional strain. Sherlock had spent so long schooling his face not to show emotion, he wasn't entirely sure he was capable of looking contrite, but he tried his damnedest to do so. "I'm sorry John," his voice was rough, the tempest of his emotions making him ramble, "I didn't mean to be away so long. Really I didn't. I'd hoped it would take less time, but I didn't factor in Moriarty's cleverness. I meant to come back in a year and tell you everything, I swear, and I was going to ask for your help redeeming my name."

The doctor stared, shocked, at the broken tone of Sherlock's voice. It reminded him of their emotional telephone conversation, how Sherlock had actually sounded pained. The detective didn't even seem to notice he was crying.

"Enough," John shushed him, kneeling down to pick up the hands wringing in his friend's lap, "enough of that now, you'll hurt your hands. All you have to do is promise to never, ever leave me out in the cold like that again," John's tanned rough hands folded around Sherlock's delicate pale ones, "And always remember no matter what," John's voice was so soft Sherlock's ears barely picked out the underlying note of sorrow, which was coupled with a look of utter heartbreak in his friend's grey eyes, "I will never betray you. Do that, and we'll call it even."

Sherlock was having trouble with his own body's reactions, finally noticing the tears cascading down his cheeks. The feeling of John's hands on his was making his skin crawl in an unnatural (but not unpleasant) way. How had he earned such loyalty and friendship as given by the man before him? John didn't deserve the constant abuse he'd been put under, the insults and the experiments heaped on him. Yet, despite everything, here he was soothing and calming, ignoring his own emotional turmoil to pledge allegiance to a sociopath who seemed to do nothing but put him through danger, pain, and strife.

Frantically the detective ripped his hands out of John's grip and lurched upward, running his hands through his hair and pacing vigorously back and forth across the floor while making an awkward, strangled noise in the back of his throat. John stood up slowly, as one would approach a skittish animal, concern deepening the lines of his face. The smaller man stepped in front of him and held out a placating hand, pressing against Sherlock's rapid heartbeat.

Without thinking (a feat in and of itself) Sherlock latched onto John's shoulders in a tight hug, gripping the doctor hard enough to bruise. The detective feared for a long moment that he'd done something wrong until strong, warm arms encircled his torso and hugged him back. He shivered violently, burying his face in the crook of John's shoulder and neck, the smaller man bracing him from falling down when his knees wobbled.

"I promise, John. I'm so sorry."


	5. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke groggily inside John's tent. They'd spoken for hours that night, each relating their adventures for the past 3 years to the other. The detective had never felt so exhausted, and when John was called from the tent for a medical emergency he insisted Sherlock curl up on the cot and get some sleep.

It had been a long time since he'd had a full night's sleep, and even though sleeping on the ground would probably have been more comfortable than the cot, he'd been out like a light within minutes. Finding himself surrounded by the familiar earthy scent of John - a curious mixture of alcohol, citrus, tea, and cinnamon - had soothed his shrieking nerves and allowed him to relax for the first time in 3 years. His brilliant mind had focused on one single thought for the first time ever: 'How does John always manage to forgive me?"

A new thought burst into his head as he sat up and looked around curiously for his flatmate. John had yet to say his name. At no point had the doctor uttered his friend's name aloud, not even when he'd been berating him soundly. It was disconcerting, and there was a sickly feeling in the detective's stomach at the discovery.

But why was it so important for John to say his name? It was just a name, it wasn't like the doctor had forgotten it. Was the man trying to punish him perhaps? Did he even realize he was doing it? Why did the fact that he didn't say it make his insides crawl?

There was no sign of John in the tent, which he presumed meant that the doctor had been roped into pulling an entire shift. Sherlock pulled himself together, straightening his thankfully wrinkle-free suit (thank Georgio for polyester blends) and decided the best course of action was to seek his friend in the hospital. Suddenly the flap opened and John himself stumbled wearily inside. He held the flap up behind him, pointing at Sherlock and speaking to someone outside the tent.

"He's right here, you daft prat. Stop trying to commandeer my men! They're trained medics, not bloody search hounds!" Apparently John had been saving his 'yelling voice' for Mycroft, "Not that you should ever be closer than a country away from him at all times ever again. Now I know why he hates you so much. How can someone clever enough to throw your weight around like you do still manage to be an infernal retard I will never, ever understand. You betrayed him, you daft bastard! Why the bloody hell are you acting like you care?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the angry bite in John's voice. Apparently Mycroft had been trying to rally the troops to seek his younger brother out when he finally realized Sherlock wasn't hiding in the hospital or the bunker. The elder Holmes' high-handed ways were irking the usually amiable doctor, and again the younger Holmes felt that warm feeling settle in the pit of his stomach at the thought of John 'protecting' him from Mycroft. Not that he, of all people, really needed protecting.

"Sherlock," his brother's voice was slightly put out, "I have been looking everywhere for you! You should at least have left word with Sergeant Davis."

When Mycroft tried to enter John's tent, the smaller man crossed his arms defiantly over his chest and glared hard at him. Something about that made Sherlock smile, the warm feeling spreading through his whole body. "You, Mycroft Holmes, will not enter my damned tent. I have been awake for 72 hours, and I will not have you, of all people, in here having a row with your brother when I'm trying to get some very much needed rest. If you do attempt to enter," John's voice dropped to an octave that made Sherlock's toes curl, "I swear on my life I will shoot you where you stand."

Mycroft actually spluttered under the auditory onslaught of that dangerous tone, and Sherlock's smile widened at his brother's discomfort. This was a new John, a hard, fearless John, and he was not going to be pushed aside or walked over. This John was battle ready, commanding, with the same solid dependability and loyalty he always possessed. This John was hot.

Sherlock bit his lip as that thought flitted through his mind and mentally slapped himself. It wasn't the first time he'd ever thought that, nor was it the most inappropriate of times he'd ever thought that (nothing like seeing a man strapped to a bomb). It was rare to see quiet, fade-into-the-background John be what Lestrade had once referred to as 'bad ass', which made it all the more distracting when he did it.

The elder Holmes straightened up to his considerable height, staring down his sharp nose at the doctor who didn't even flinch, "Sherlock, you will attend me this instant."

John didn't move out of the doorway, instead Sherlock had to walk around him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. The smaller man leaned aside, still holding the flap open. Sherlock gave him a simple, nearly invisible smile as he walked by, letting his long fingers brush against the doctor's hand as he exited. Glancing back casually the detective watched John stare down at his hand and flex it as if perplexed. Interesting.

"What do you want Mycroft," Sherlock snapped coldly as the flap fell closed behind him.

"You disappeared last night without word. The men and I were anxious that you'd been caught up by something. How many times have I told you," the elder Holmes fell silent when Sherlock sliced a hand through the air.

"Save me the protective brother speech, Mycroft. John told me last night that it was you who told Moriarty those stories about my childhood."

Mycroft actually blanched, "What?"

"You gave that bastard exactly what he needed to discredit me, did you know that?" Sherlock crowded into Mycroft's personal space, taking a note from John he punctuated his words by poking his brother in the chest. "You gave him all the ammunition he needed. When we get back to London, you are never to come within a city block of me, my flat, my landlady, or my partner. I never want your pompous ass darkening my doorway again!"

Inside the tent, John listened to the exchange with a weary but proud smile on his face. That was his Sherlock, arrogant and demanding, and for once the doctor was sure Mycroft would be unable to deny his brother's demands. After all, John himself had been very harsh when he'd accused Mycroft of betraying his brother that day in the Diogenes club. John almost smiled when Sherlock said 'partner' instead of colleague.

Outside Holmes the elder turned so red with rage Sherlock was actually 89% certain he was about to be smacked with an umbrella. Fortunately, their prisoner took that time to burst out of the bunker and make a hobbling break for the dunes. He must have been on some heavy painkillers to be able to move with that knee injury. When the frightened traitor realized he was severely outnumbered, he rushed the two brothers.

Mycroft pushed his little brother out of the way as the man held up a revolver, earning a bullet in the leg for his trouble. Sherlock found himself backing up between the tent and the bunker staring down the barrel of yet another gun while his brother began to bleed to death in his peripheral vision.

At the sound of the scuffle and the shot John threw the tent flap back open in time to see Sherlock disappearing around the corner, and Mycroft bleeding profusely onto the sands. So, he'd just gotten back his best friend, and now some crippled psycho with a gun thought he was going to finish what Moriarty hadn't? Rage blazed white hot in his mind, and he felt a familiar tingle behind his eyes.

"Stay back you bastards," the madman spat at the soldiers forming ranks around him, "Stay back or I'll blow his bloody head to kingdom..."

An inhuman growl silenced the assassin and a furious John Watson tackled him from the side. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure where his friend had appeared from, but the speed with which he struck was dumbfounding. The assassin managed to get off two shots, directly into the doctor's side. With an evil hiss John grabbed hold of the bastard's neck and squeezed.

One powerful wrench and the assassin's spine broke with a sound like the snapping of a wishbone. Soldiers converged on the doctor and gathered him up, dragging him back to the hospital even though he was still nearly roaring in fury. Sherlock stared at the dead assassin, the head turned at an awkward angle, the terrified look of shock. The detective had never seen John so violent before.

Snapping himself out of his daze he shouted for the extraction team to drag the body back into the hospital to be bagged and tagged like any other dead man. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen so Sherlock assumed he'd been taken to the hospital and took off in pursuit. They would, he deduced, bring both the Doctor and Mycroft into the main area and work on them in beds instead of the rear surgery.

What he saw within the hospital astonished him. John, still bleeding, was bellowing orders to the fussing orderlies and nurses around him, his hands covered in Mycroft's blood. The shot had apparently severed something important in his brother's leg, and there seemed to be a shortage of people capable enough to stop the bleeding. It was a powerful wake-up call. Even though John was obviously furious with Mycroft's callous betrayal, the pull of the doctor's calling was so strong he worked even through his own pain to save the life beneath his instruments.

Madeline was kneeling beside John, who stood shirtless with a pair of clamps and forceps in his hands. She was stitching the wounds of the doctor's side as the man himself worked at staunching the flow of blood from Mycroft's knee. His brother was unconscious, pale as death, even as John managed to successfully clamp the artery and started to dislodge the bullet. Steady and precise , John's hands didn't even twitch as Madeline's needle threaded in and out of his flesh.

Sherlock was frozen as he watched his friend save his brother's life, even while bleeding himself. An orderly bandaged John's stitched up wounds as Madeline prepared another needle and thread to be used on Mycroft. Another nurse, a short-haired brunette, replaced the forceps in John's hands with a torch when he wrenched out the bullet and began assessing the extent of the damage. Another male orderly took charge of the torch as John and Madeline bent to the task of stitching artery, muscle, and flesh back into a whole.

Mycroft was lifted to another bed and tucked in comfortably within minutes of being bandaged. John leaned tiredly against the still bloody table in front of him, eyes closed. Madeline came forward with a bottle of water and something in a cup, both of which John downed in moments with a weary smile. After a long moment of indecision, Sherlock tore his eyes from his brother's still body and nearly ran to John's side.

Madeline looked up at the detective with bright black eyes and smiled, "You should get the Captain back to his tent. Poor man's dead on his feet as it is and suddenly all hell breaks loose!" She patted John on the shoulder, "You've got the worst luck, Sir."

John laughed roughly, "You're telling me."

"Come on, John. You need sleep, and you need it now," Sherlock put a steadying hand on his elbow.

"I can walk by myself, you know," John said wearily, leaning sideways into Sherlock's touch despite his words.

"Of course you can, John," Sherlock retorted, "But can you stay upright while doing it?"

The doctor chuckled and allowed his friend to support him until they reached his cot. The detective tugged at the pillows and then fussed with the blanket until it was tucked just so around the smaller man. John's eyes were closed and his breathing hitched with every stab of pain from his wounds. Sherlock couldn't help but brush a soothing hand over his friend's forehead.

John's grey eyes fluttered open and he smiled wearily, "Thank you."

"Thank you for saving my life again, John. And Mycroft's too I suppose. Personally, I think you should have just removed his leg." His friend chuckled wearily and Sherlock pulled the chair over to the side of the bed. "At least now he'll have an excuse to cart about that umbrella."

John held up his hand and Sherlock comfortably slipped his own into it. "Be here when I wake up?"

"Of course, John."

"If you get tired, there's another cot against the wall," the doctor's voice was getting thick with exhaustion. "And if you get bored there's some medical journals around or there might be a few magazines."

"I'll be fine, John. Go to sleep."

John smiled, eyes fluttering closed, "Don't leave me again, Sherlock."

He was glad his friend had fallen asleep, it meant there was no one to see him cry.


	6. Chapter 5

After the events of the morning, Sherlock was too wired up to rest. He spent most of the time after John had fallen asleep considering the strange bond they shared. John the caring healer and Sherlock the unfeeling detective. He wasn't sure how it worked, or why John continued to take the abuse, or why he kept abusing John just because the man never seemed to say 'enough'. The doctor was loyal, steadfast, more concerned with his friend's well-being than his own, and Sherlock was focused on the thrill of the puzzle, on showing off how clever he was. Not that Sherlock didn't protect or praise John in his own roundabout way.

If he were truthful with himself, John puzzled him because he'd never had a friend like the doctor before. There were the children from school who had been friends with him only because of his family's influence. There were the teens in boarding school who used him for test answers, who'd introduced him to drugs if only to watch him make a fool of himself. Then there were the people in university who used him to get black-mail on their teachers and fellow students, who introduced him to the harder drugs, who used him for his body and mind.

John never asked anything of Sherlock with the exception of cleaning up a mess or picking up milk. The man hated drugs with a fiery passion, going out of his way to keep his friend occupied to prevent him from relapses. He never asked Sherlock to use his deductive reasoning to get above someone or something. John was nearly immune to bribery on any side. And of course, judging by the string of pretty girlfriends John was straight, which meant there was no chance of being used by him.

Sherlock focused on the heavy, warm hand wrapped in his, stroking a thumb ever so gently across the back of the doctor's tanned knuckles. There were some days when he wasn't so sure about John's obsession with the fairer sex. This small gesture was not helping. He was really going to have to stop thinking like this. Where the hell were those books?

It was mid-afternoon when John woke with Sherlock still directly beside him, and surprisingly their hands were still clasped together. The detective was reading one of John's medical journals, and judging by the growing pile of them beside the chair he'd been bored for quite some time. John squeezed the hand in his and tugged lightly.

Sherlock looked up at him immediately and smiled softly, "Glad to see you've woken, John."

"Was there any doubt that I wouldn't? Have you checked on Mycroft at all?"

The detective made a snorting noise, "Of course not. I've seen your medical staff at work. I'm sure he's under good care."

"Physically perhaps. I doubt he's going to like the way they'll handle things if he gets arrogant on them," John's smirk was still a little weary.

"As if he couldn't use a good dose of humility."

Chuckling warmly the doctor untangled his fingers from Sherlock's and stretched carefully, grimacing when the stitches in his side tugged against his flesh. Carefully he propped himself up into a sitting position and pulled the blanket down to assess the damages. The white, square bandages showed a little bleed through, but nothing too serious. He would have to get them changed soon just to make sure there was no risk of infection. Not that he mistrusted Madeline's skills, mind, but considering the morning's events it wouldn't hurt to be cautious.

As he swung his legs over the side of the cot, Sherlock pushed the end of the journal against his unscarred shoulder, "8 hours, while a normal sleeping pattern, is hardly enough to make up for 72 hours of being awake."

John pushed the book away and looked up with a wry smirk, "This from Mister I-don't-need-sleep-it-slows-me-down? If I want sleep advice I'll ask someone who actually does it on a regular basis. I wasn't really awake for 72 hours straight through, I took a few naps. Besides, it's not like the people around here have been waking me up at 4am because they accidentally set the kitchen on fire."

The mention of his old habits turned on a switch inside Sherlock's mind. It jumped from memory to memory, flashing moments of his life with and without John at the flat like a flipbook. Was John trying to say he wasn't going back?

"You ," Sherlock swallowed and fell silent, then hopped up suddenly to pace back and forth. John waited patiently, arms folded across his chest. The detective would speak again when he got his thoughts in order, it was just a matter of waiting it out. It was Sherlock's particular brand of nervous activity, a clear sign he'd worked himself up by over thinking some problem or another.

Still pacing, Sherlock finally spoke in a falsely disinterested voice, as if he were remarking about the weather, "You are coming back."

One of John's brows lifted, "To Baker street?" At the detective's jerky nod (a clear indicator he was not as disinterested as he sounded) the doctor smiled, "Eventually."

Long pale fingers fiddled with a sharp corner of the text, "When?"

John took a deep breath and hauled himself to his feet, rocking slightly on his heels, "When this is all over."

"If it's never over? You understand my concern of course. If I need to find someone else to help with the rent," Sherlock let his sentence hang in the air, trying to hide his discomfort. John's answer was so very important he was barely able to breathe.

"Sherlock," the detective gripped the journal as if it were a lifeline as his name vibrated in the air in John's specific timbre, "The Americans are starting their extraction in the next few days. The few bombers and insurgents left in the area here were taken care of the day you showed up." John extracted the book from his friend's pale hands and patted his uninjured bicep, "We'll be pulling out next week. I'll be home in no time."

"Home," anyone who didn't know Sherlock would have missed the desperate longing in his soft whisper. He closed his eyes, picturing the flat with perfect clarity.

Home: 221B Baker Street. 2 bedrooms, 1 bath, living room, kitchen. A violin laying on a precarious pile of papers, chemistry equipment bubbling on the kitchen table, tea steeping in the kettle, a comfortably worn leather sofa. Mrs. Hudson tottering about muttering at the state of things, the rustle of John reading the paper, the skull on the mantel. The sound of a text calling him on to the next case of need, the adrenaline high, the crushing boredom. The thrill of the chase, of the puzzle, the sound of John's footsteps pounding right behind.

"Yes home, you nutter," the fond affection in John's tone made Sherlock feel pleasantly squirmy inside, despite the insult. "I'll be back trailing behind you before you know it."

"Good. Can't work without my blogger, can I?"

John laughed again and then hissed as his muscles twitched the wounds in his side. "I'd better go get these re-bandaged. Feel free to lounge around in here if you like."

Sherlock followed him out into the blaring sunshine, "No, I'll check on Mycroft while you get yourself sorted."

"Suit yourself," John shrugged, walking steadily towards the hospital.

Sherlock followed him quietly, glancing around as soldiers bustled about the camp. Many nodded or smiled at John, who acknowledged each gesture with a nod or smile of his own. Once or twice someone would jog over with a clipboard that John would peer at and sign. It was interesting to see John so confident, so in command.

On cases, John usually hung to the rear, a quiet, steady presence that kept Sherlock from looking completely daft when he said or did something abnormal. The doctor was the social half of their partnership, always smoothing over any faux pas or rude remark. Here though, here Sherlock could actually see John working at the top of his game.

Once inside the hospital, Sherlock plopped himself beside his still unconscious brother, turning to the room at large. It was the perfect opportunity to observe John in his element. Another black nurse, a heavy set woman named Della, came forward with a change of bandages as other orderlies and nurses clambered for attention. Sherlock wondered if there were no other surgeons at work.

Lieutenant Barstowe and another female Lieutenant arrived shortly after, and John gently steered certain nurses and orderlies in their directions. Once Della had finished her re-bandaging, she and a lanky Asian orderly named Sheng became John's main assistants, flanking him on either side. It was like watching ordered chaos in motion, a whirlwind of medical staff sliding up and down each row of injured soldiers in perfect step.

A pretty girl in black scrubs with her arm in a bright blue sling came up to the side of Mycroft's bed and checked his IV. "'Lo", she said softly, "Should wake up in a hour or so. 'Ad to kip 'im sedated after 'e tried to order us about."

Yorkshire, judging by her accent, schooled at St. Bart's according to her class ring, probably the elder sister of 3 - no 4 brothers. Sherlock twitched his lips at her briefly. Why can't the English teach their children to speak properly? He glanced away, trying to catch sight of John in the mass of people making their way to the end of the room.

"Cap'n's orders," the girl piped and Sherlock leaned back from the Styrofoam cup of tea she pushed into his hands. "Told me to make sure you 'ad that an' to ask you if you want sommat to eat?"

The detective sipped the beverage carefully, hiding his surprise when he realized it was exactly how he liked it. "Has your Captain eaten yet?"

"Eats on the run 'e does," she waved a dismissive hand as she checked the bandage on Mycroft's wounded leg. "Same as a rest o'us. Not much time in the day wot wif us bein' on'y 'alf staffed. Lost a few men to a bombin' raid." Her face turned sad briefly, then her cheery smile returned, "Can I getchoo anyfing? Egg samwich? Sausage maybe?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Right-o then," the girl bobbed a curtsey and slid off towards the next patient in the line.

Sherlock glanced at his still sleeping brother and smirked. He wondered if John had told his staff last night to use sedation if Mycroft got on his dignity. Taking another sip of tea his smirk turned into a small smile. Leave it to John to make sure he had a cup of tea and an offer of breakfast. For someone who didn't possess Sherlock's particular deductive skills, the doctor didn't miss much.

He spent the rest of the hour before Mycroft awoke just watching the medical staff swarming around the room. Nurses cajoled surly patients into eating, orderlies joked with amputees, doctors held hands and broke both good and bad news with either aloofness or gentility. John was one of the latter.

One of the beds near Mycroft held an amputee, a young man who had lost his left leg below the knee. He was one of John's patients, and when the doctor arrived at his bedside the sad look on the man's face vanished into a smile. John shook his hand firmly and Sherlock leaned closer to better hear their exchange.

"Well," John said softly, "the bad news is you're alive."

The young man's smile turned wry, "What a shame, eh?"

"I really am sorry we couldn't repair the damage," the doctor bowed his head, genuinely contrite.

Rummaging around in his shirt pockets the young man pulled out a circular disc and held it up, "It's a leg, Doc. I got another one. Besides, I'd've died if it weren't for you. Don't look at me as someone who's lost a leg," the young man opened John's palm and placed the disc inside it, "look at me as someone who gets to go home to his family."

They clasped hands again and Sherlock pressed his hands to his lips in his usual thinking position. How many lives had John touched in this war, how many had he saved? How many men had unfortunately died beneath those strong, steady hands? How many men like this one lost their limbs to John's saw?

"Thank you for this, Billy," John's voice was still soft and kind as he slipped the disc into his pants pocket, "but it won't make me feel like any less of a butcher."

"You are no butcher, Captain," young Billy said fiercely, "A bloody butcher would've taken me whole leg! At least I can still look good in a pair of pants! All I need is a nice prosthetic and I'll be jogging marathons in no time!"

Dr Watson let out a low chuckle and patted Billy's shoulder, "I've no doubt of that, Billy. You take care of yourself and give that lovely little girl of yours a hug from me when you get home."

"Thanks to you I can do just that, Sir."

John blushed with embarrassment, "It wasn't just me, Bill. There's plenty of other people you can thank."

"No one did as much as you."

Again John bowed his head and wished the young man good luck. He spared a small moment to pat Sherlock on the shoulder when he glanced at the vital signs of the elder Holmes. Then he moved on to the next patient in the row, freeing Sherlock to slip around to Billy's bedside.

"What did you give him?"

Billy, startled, looked up into his face, "Sorry?"

"Dr Watson, what did you give him?"

"One of my tags, Sir," Billy frowned, "Why?"

"Curiosity. Why give him one of your dog tags?"

The young man shifted himself into a more upright position, looking a little confused, "Tradition, Sir. Doc saves your life, you give him a tag."

"He cut off your leg," it was a statement, not an accusation.

"Yeah, after he carried me through 4 kilometers of desert during a fire fight. Didn't even blink when the shelling started, just kept telling me to stay awake, talking to me," he looked slightly awed, "Never seen a battlefield surgeon like the Captain."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, "You were in a fight?"

Billy nodded, "Yep. Caught some shrapnel in me leg. It was bleeding real bad. Doc took half a glance at it and said he was sorry but the leg had to go or I'd bleed out. I was worried he was going to chop off the whole thing," he patted the thigh of his injured leg. "But he weren't no butcher. When I asked he just gave me this look like I was stupid and said that everything above the knee was fine so why would he do that."

"So he removed your leg, while you were under fire?"

"Well," the young man scratched his chin, "actually the shelling started just as he finished putting a tourniquet on me. Explosions all around making the bunker rattle and the way he carried on talking you'd think we were just punting on the bloody Thames." Again the awed head shake, "Once he'd gotten the leg off and made sure I wasn't going to bleed all over the place, he hoisted me up and told the rest of the lads to get a move on." He laughed.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, "You admire him."

Billy nodded, "Yes, Sir. Not many men as cool under fire as Captain Watson. Not many men like him at all."

"No," the detective said softly, "I suppose not."

The sound of Mycroft stirring made him take his leave of Billy, apologizing for disturbing him. He was forgiven with a calm smile and a sharp salute. In a moment Sherlock had returned to his brother's side, looking down at the groggy man with a slightly annoyed face. He really wasn't looking forward to finishing their last conversation.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mycroft."

His elder brother looked up at him and shifted uncomfortably on the bed, "Sherlock. You're well I see."

"Quite well, yes."

"And I?"

John appeared out of nowhere, "You'll survive. Your leg should heal up in time, though you may want to keep something sturdier than an umbrella about to help you hobble around doing," he made a vague gesture, "whatever it is exactly that you do."

Mycroft frowned deeply, "How unpleasant. I shall phone my assistant right away to procure us a ride back to England. I will make sure to have a car waiting to take you back to your flat, Sherlock."

"Perhaps I'd like to stay here," Sherlock said coldly, "instead of traveling home with my arch enemy."

The elder Holmes rolled his eyes, "I did just save your life, are we really going to go through this again?"

"John told me how you betrayed me, remember?"

Silence pressed on the small group, shocked on Mycroft's part, cold on Sherlock's. John seemed a little pensive, eyes focused on the monitor beside the bed. The elder Holmes' jaw worked back and forth for a long moment. "Very well," he said finally, voice tight, "Stay here in the desert then, if that is what you wish."

Sherlock felt something tug at his jacket sleeve and looked over at his flatmate. John's face was grim, but not angry, "Sherlock, there are better places to have this conversation. Like in the air on the ride home. You'll only be in the way here, and unlike Lestrade the General will not tolerate you calling him and his entire staff idiots. Besides, you'll be bored."

The detective opened his mouth to argue, but John silenced him with a firm shake of the head. "Fine then," Sherlock huffed dramatically, "I'll go back to Baker Street."

"Try not to blow up the kitchen before I get home?"

"No promises."


	7. Chapter 6

It was too quiet. Far too quiet for a London afternoon. And boring. It was also very, very boring. What day was it anyway? Monday? No, Wednesday? Something-day anyway, and 3 days since the last case, which wasn't much of a case at all. Where the hell did that bloody calendar go?

Sherlock unfolded his long body from its position lounging over the leather sofa and dragged himself into the kitchen, tucking his dressing gown securely around his midsection.. The last place he'd seen the calendar was on the door of the fridge, but it wasn't hanging there now. He frowned at the appliance as if it were to blame for the disappearance.

Somewhere downstairs a door opened and quick steps pounded up the stairs. This was no time for visitors, Sherlock grimaced to himself, unless of course that visitor had a case. The steps were heavy, but familiar, and they paused at the landing, as if taking in the room. Probably not Lestrade, then, he was used to the mess. Then again, the mess was quite charred at the moment. He'd had a small tiff with his laptop, which ended when it had the gall to set itself on fire. More steps, hesitant, as if confused or afraid. He was sure the cadence of those steps had been familiar...

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't blow anything up."

At the sound of that oh-so-familiar voice Sherlock spun around like a whirling dervish. There in the entryway of the kitchen, wearing a playful smirk and an RAMC dress uniform, was Dr. John H Watson. Sherlock mentally smacked himself as his brilliant mind put two and two together; that was why he wanted the calendar - John was coming home today.

"Technically, you said not to blow up the kitchen," the detective answered lightly, fighting down the urge to throw himself onto his flatmate and hug him to death.

John's smile was bright and serene, "It's so good to be home." He turned around and bounced back down the stairs. Sherlock presumed he was fetching his belongings, a fact that was proven when the doctor reappeared on the landing lugging a trunk and duffle bag.

To John's surprise, Sherlock tugged the duffle from his grip and carried it upstairs to John's old room. The place smelled a tad musty, easily remedied when the windows were thrown open a moment later. Sunlight flooded the small space and the detective took advantage of his friend's pleased pause by observing the uniform.

It fit the doctor well, and the amount of medals strung about it took him slightly aback. So many rewards for courage, bravery, even a coveted Victorian Cross sparkled proudly. It was a reminder that John was no ordinary man, nor ordinary soldier. He was a brave fighter, a war hero even, and Sherlock wondered briefly how often he'd taken the poor man for granted in the past.

"Alright you, out of my room so I can get out of this blasted thing," John chuckled warmly, pushing his friend by the shoulder.

Instead of shuffling out, Sherlock turned and traced the line of medals glinting at his friend's chest. John gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing further as the detective studied his fill. He shuddered slightly when Sherlock's hand rested over his heart. The doctor's face was slightly flushed when Sherlock's eyes connected with his own.

"They're just pieces of cloth and tin, Sherlock," John waved a dismissive hand.

"No," his genius friend's voice was soft, "No they aren't. They're evidence of heroism, John. Your heroism."

Blushing further, John rested a hand over Sherlock's own heart and pressed forward gently, "Out, Sherlock, let me change?"

Acquiescing if only because he was shocked by his body's reaction to that touch, Sherlock moved back down into the kitchen, plugging in the kettle. His long pale fingers traced the fading RAMC logo on John's favorite mug before he set it on the counter and dropped a teabag into it. It was rare for the detective to make tea, but somehow he felt like the arrival of his best friend deserved a bit of non-conformity. It also gave him a moment to catalogue his body's odd betrayal just a few moments ago.

While Sherlock contemplated the warm, squirmy, fluttery feeling that had permeated his belly at the doctor's touch, John was upstairs staring at that same hand that had just felt the detective's beating heart. Though he found it intriguing, Sherlock put the thought to the back of his mind to simmer, refusing to focus on it. John, however, had noticed the change in the heart rate that had been beneath his fingertips, and it made his mind whir in circles with all that change might imply.

In fear of dwelling too much on it, John stripped off his dress uniform and hung it in his nearly empty closet. He hadn't had time to do any laundry before he'd been shipped home, so his options were very limited. Jeans would do, they always could, but it was just a little too warm in the house for one of his usual jumpers. Ok, maybe it wasn't the flat that was warm. Just stop thinking about it, you fool, and put on a damned shirt.

When the doctor's footsteps sounded on the stairs again, Sherlock filled the steeping cups with a splash of milk each. Two lumps for John, one lump for himself, same as always. Grasping both handles he smiled as he heard the creak of John settling in his favorite armchair. All was right with the world.

Closing his eyes, John reclined in his chair, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction. Sherlock nearly dropped the mugs when he took in the sight of his flatmate wearing a fitted black shirt and worn looking jeans. Yes, it was the beginning of summer, but did that give the man the right to not wear his usual knitted jumpers? There was far too much tanned skin visible to the detective, and each breath the man took in made his war sculpted muscles stand out.

Somewhere inside his head, Sherlock smacked himself with an imaginary rolled-up newspaper as if he were a naughty dog. This was John - calm, dependable, STRAIGHT John. Good flatmates, gay or otherwise, did not entertain thoughts like that about their flatmates. Bad genius. Bad, bad genius. Stop that now, or it's going to be cold shower time.

With an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, Sherlock presented his flatmate with the tea. The pleased, surprised smile that he was graced with made his body tingle, a sensation that grew into a pleasant warmth when their fingers touched as the mug was passed. Sighing in a contented way Sherlock flopped himself back on the sofa, sinking into the blissful feeling of wholeness.

"Welcome home, John."

"Welcome home, Sherlock."

The silence was much less oppressive now, and while he was still bored Sherlock couldn't help but feel just a little peaceful. Sooner or later, his phone might ring and a case would be begging for their attention, but right now there was nothing but two friends enjoying each other's company. The detective was surprised at how much he had missed that peace.

John started to chuckle when Sherlock's phone began ringing shrilly. It figured the peace wouldn't last. Couldn't he just have one day of quiet reflection? His flatmate whipped the phone off the table and stared at the display, frowning.

"Mycroft?" John asked, smirking over at him.

"Well deduced."

"Yeah, well," the doctor shifted in his seat, "you only get that sour look on your face when he's involved, and he's probably the only other person besides me who actually calls you."

Sherlock pressed 'ignore' and tossed the mobile back onto the coffee table. "He'll leave a message if it's that important." He threw an arm over his eyes and rested his mug on the floor.

John's empty mug was placed on the end table a second later, "How was that flight back here?"

"I had more fun the day my wisdom teeth were pulled."

"How delightful."

Silence fell again, and the feeling of camaraderie and familiarity soothed both men's jangling nerves. It had been far too long for friends as co-dependent as they were to be apart. In his whirling mind Sherlock promised himself never to be apart from his doctor for so long again. John silently promised himself to never let the detective out of earshot for more than 8 hours at a time.

The phone rang again and both men groaned in unison. Sherlock actually picked up this time, snapping into the receiver, "What?"

When the detective sat up looking uncharacteristically pensive, John picked up his mug and made himself scarce by hiding in the kitchen. It was looking to be a private conversation, and the last thing that Sherlock would welcome was a witness. He turned on the water to wash the dishes still left over in the sink, giving his friend just a little bit of extra cover.

Inside the living room, Sherlock began to pace from the couch to the fireplace, over and over at a semi-rapid speed. The detective was gesticulating wildly, but John couldn't hear a thing over the water as he cleaned. Judging by his friend's agitation the conversation was a personal one.

When the washing was finished, he turned his attention to the refrigerator, blocking out the sound of the detective beginning to shout. Steeling himself against the possibility of staring yet another severed head in the face, John opened the door and was surprised to find a nearly empty set of shelves. There was milk (surprising), a box of what he hoped was left over Thai food, and a jar of dirt in the vegetable drawer. Shopping was in order.

Sherlock was still arguing into the phone, so John jogged upstairs to get his coat, this was apparently going to be a long telephone conversation. When he came back down and caught his flatmate's eye he pantomimed carrying a shopping bag while pointing to the kitchen. The detective nodded understanding and waved him off dismissively, pausing his pacing to shout something rather rude into the phone. John took his leave before he heard anything more.

Taking a cab down to the local Tesco's was refreshing, and John took deep breaths of the London air while he reveled being home. He didn't even realize he was humming until a woman in the frozen food section told him how much she loved that song. It was turning out to be a good day until he found himself in front of his old nemesis: the self-check out machine.

Frowning he scanned his items and carefully chose 'credit' on the screen. The processing took a little longer than was strictly necessary, but for once the machine didn't make a fool of him. When he went to bag his items he smiled at the pretty young brunette employee that came over to help him.

"Good to see you looking so cheery," the girl said in a voice that sent a shiver up John's spine.

He took a good, long look at her and when their eyes locked it was Her eyes. Swallowing and looking about him, checking to see if anyone was within earshot, John softly said, "Thank you, ma'am."

She giggled softly, "Just popped by to check in on you."

"Not really necessary, but appreciated," John carefully bagged some cold cuts in one bag as She piled cans into another.

"I also came with a warning," the dark eyes flashed Her symbol within, like the gaze of a leopard caught by a night vision camera. To John, who's eyes mimicked the action, it felt like his head was on fire and time had stopped. Images flashed through his mind as she continued, "Something is coming that will cause you to reveal where your loyalty lies."

A man, tall, faceless, dressed in a dark suit. The sheen of moonlight on the edge of a knife. Smoke wisping up from the barrel of a gun. Grey curtains whipping back to reveal a framed portrait. A thin, pale girl splayed on stark white sheets with blood pooling from her abdomen. His own hand stained crimson.

Her eerie voice echoed dangerously, "If you fail, he will be unstoppable. Already some of the heads have been seared from the Hydra, but it is up to you to take on the one in which it keeps its brain."

Sherlock unconscious against a wall. An open umbrella spinning on a wooden floor. High pitched laughter echoing down a long, dark hallway. The flash of an expensive, shiny loafer disappearing around a corner.

"You will need your own natural gifts in addition to mine, and I have no doubt you will succeed," the burning sensation subsided and the world snapped back into motion. Her voice continued, soft but insistent, "Just don't forget that no matter what happens, your loyalty is to me first?"

John blinked rapidly, frowning, and fervently said, "I won't forget."

There was a sad look in Her eyes and She gently clasped his hands, "For the pain that is to come, I am thoroughly sorry. No one deserves it, least of all a man as kind and loyal as you."

"Thank you," he replied, "I just wish there was another way."

"So do I, little one, so do I."

She released his hands and moved onward to an elderly female customer, who smiled at the help. John took his leave, trying to ignore the wrenching feeling in his gut. It was a very disconcerting exchange, and the warning settled around his heart like a cage of ice.

Resting his head against the cab window he let the cool glass try to hold back the headache slowly creeping up on him. If what he'd been told came to pass, it would mean revealing the worst part of himself to the greatest friend he'd ever had. He would be laying himself bare in front of the man he loved.

He chuckled to himself as he paid the cabbie and gathered his groceries together. What was he thinking? If anything, Sherlock would probably find him the greatest scientific find he'd ever had. John would be poked and prodded and quite possibly stuffed and mounted on a caulk board under glass. Then the detective would be bored of the mystery and move on to another, and John would be forgotten.

Then again, Sherlock had been oddly tactile when he was looking at the medals, or there was that hug when he'd promised never to leave. Jogging up the stairs as he wondered what that could mean, he heard Mrs. Hudson shouting something about the walls. It was time to revise his promise - Sherlock was not allowed out of earshot for more than 3 hours. And he was going to need a better gun safe for his Browning.

Bypassing the detective and their landlady standing across the living room from one another shouting, John ducked into the kitchen and began to put everything away. It was rare for Sherlock to argue so loudly with Mrs. Hudson, after all the man had great respect for her it seemed. John was worried it would end with her running crying back to her part of the building and him having to force Sherlock to apologize to her. Forcing Sherlock to apologize never went well.

The argument died down as soon as he was finished putting away the food. John walked cautiously into the living room in time to hear Sherlock apologize for shouting and Mrs. Hudson forgive him with a motherly hug and a promise to bring up something for her 'favorite boys' at supper time. The doctor let out a tiny sigh of relief before taking in the state of the living room.

It looked like a 3 year old had thrown a tantrum. Papers were strewn about, there were fresh bullet holes in the wall and ceiling, John's gun and several spent shells lay on the coffee table. Books had been shoved off the shelves, his armchair had been tipped over backwards, and saddest of all Sherlock's bow lay snapped in 2 pieces on the floor.

"Do I even want to know or is this going to be one of those times you pretend you don't know what I'm talking about?"

Sherlock leaned in his usual window, cradling his violin and plucking erratically at the strings. John couldn't see his face so he picked his way around the tumbled books until they stood side by side. The usual icy, unfeeling mask was over the detective's face, but judging by the jerky movements of his elegant hands he was highly agitated.

"I know you hate it when I repeat myself," John offered quietly, leaning his back against the wall and looking up with a concerned expression.

The detective sneered slightly, then let out a petulant huff, but he knew John's patience was more than a match for his own. After a long moment Sherlock haltingly spoke, "Mycroft has called with news of a personal nature."

"Something bad seeing as you've taken it out on the flat."

"Yes."

A long moment slid by before John offered, "Do you want to talk about it?"

There was another sneer that crossed his friend's face, which turned into a more thoughtful look as Sherlock's eyes met with his. He was silent for a long moment, head cocking to the side as if studying a particularly interesting specimen. Sometimes John wondered what thoughts were taking place behind that look.

If he could have read minds, he would have known Sherlock was wondering the same thing of John's inquisitive face. The detective was running through all the facts he kept filed under 'John' in his mind, and coming to the conclusion that as a person in general, John was trustworthy. If asked, the doctor would keep whatever passed between them secret. There was also the fear of being alone with his personal demons, as he had been for the last 3 years.

"This does not make an appearance on the blog, John," Sherlock huffed.

The smaller man smiled and shook his head a smidgeon, "Of course not."

Sherlock laid himself out on the sofa while John righted his chair with a grunt and positioned it so he could read his friend's expression. John was one of the few people versed in the silent language of Sherlock Holmes, and observing the minute changes that occurred in his companion's less expressive face the doctor could accurately infer how the impassive man felt. It came in handy when trying to cover the consulting detective's frequent social mishaps.

The younger man let out a long sigh, closing his eyes and placing his palms together in what John called his 'pondering' pose. To keep himself from fidgeting, John clasped his hands in his lap. Sherlock would talk only when he was ready, and if that meant John had to wait all day he would.

Sherlock angled his head slightly towards his friend and slowly spoke, "Mycroft called originally to berate me for not telling the rest of the family of my," he smirked, "shall I say miraculous recovery?" The smirk disappeared, "Then he put my father on the phone, effectively declaring open season on my emotional shortcomings. It was a rather impressive tirade on his part, I admit. However, then he decided that wasn't enough and the rest of my family were put on the phone until they had all had their say. I started throwing things around the time my step-mother began berating me about my taste in women."

"Aren't you gay?" John interrupted.

Sherlock opened his eyes expecting to see an uncomfortable look on his companion's face. Instead he was greeted with a quizzical meeting of the eyebrows coupled with a concerned frown. That was interesting, especially the way that look made Sherlock's own stomach flutter. Further study would be needed, but that wasn't the point now.

"I've tried to explain that to her numerous times, dear Watson," ok, he had NOT meant to say that last part out loud. Keep talking, genius, or he'll notice, "but it never seems to sink in. Personally, I think it's some kind of selective Alzheimers."

John chuckled, a small half-smile playing over his face. He hadn't seemed to notice the detective's small Freudian slip, but a closer inspection showed a slight flush to the man's tan cheeks. Bollocks, better be more careful if he didn't want John fleeing for the hills. After all, they'd only just gotten back into the swing of things, it wouldn't do at all for the partnership to dissolve over something like that.

Sherlock mentally slapped himself (his subconscious was going to get whiplash if this kept up), warning his inner voice to shut its trap before he had to get really stern. He was not going to get into whatever it was his mind and body seemed to be hinting at right now. Don't think about it, because if you do, you won't stop until you figure it out. Ok? Ok.

The detective made a dismissive gesture and then laid his hands across his stomach, thoughtfully glancing up at the ceiling, "I had to listen to her for another 3 minutes, then my step-sister came on and started crying, and then my step-brother came on and blamed me for my step-sister developing cancer, which I did not know about until he said that," he turned and pointed at John's chair, "Coincidentally, that's when I tipped your chair over and then knocked down all the books. I think I was frustrated. Or annoyed."

"Knowing you? Probably both," John sounded fondly exasperated.

"Possible. Following that revelation I did something I have never done before and demanded Mycroft be put back on the phone," he chose to ignore John's chuckle, "and asked him why I hadn't been told about her condition. He called me an arrogant, selfish prig that never listened unless I was the subject being discussed and he swore numerous times that he had told me about it."

"Maybe you deleted it?"

"Unlikely, I think he was just being obtuse. I do recall him mentioning something about someone being in chemotherapy but I assumed it was either some government official or one of his staff members, neither of which I could give less than a damn about."

Silence fell over both men, broken only by the detective beginning to wring his hands again. John reached forward and pressed down on them, giving the detective a stern 'we've talked about this before' look until his hands stilled. Sherlock had to fight with himself not to capture John's fingers with his own.

"So, when did the gun come out?"

"Oh," blue eyes popped open again and looked sideways, "I thought I heard you come home, then when you weren't in the kitchen I thought you had hidden up in your room. I started shooting so you'd come running downstairs."

John slumped backwards in his chair, running his hands over his face, "I wasn't even home then. You couldn't have just texted me?"

"I was talking on the phone."

After another long moment of quiet John rubbed his hands over his face again and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped before him, "So? What did you want to ask me?"

"Oh!" Sherlock sat up quickly, tightening his dressing gown again, "Is chemotherapy better than surgery?"

"Hmmm," John pressed his clasped hands to his chin in thought before answering, "depends on the kind of cancer, its location, how aggressive it is."

"Ovarian."

"One or both?"

"One."

A contemplative hum pursed John's lips, "Recurring?"

"Yes, even though she was only diagnosed a year ago."

The doctor tapped a finger against his lips, "Well, if it's recurring that rapidly, even factoring in the chemotherapy, I'd recommend surgery."

"You have any friends in oncology at the hospital?"

"Yes, so do you."

"Oh? Who?"

"Me." Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, trying to decide if he was joking or not. John smirked, "I'm not just a handsome face, you know."

"You have a degree in oncology?"

"I have a doctorate."

The blank look on Sherlock's face was as close to surprise as John had ever seen. "Since when?"

John laughed, "Since always. It's just never come up before."

The detective blinked once, twice, "How the devil has this never come up before?"

John shrugged, "Well, you never really asked and I'm not one to brag. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't just deduce it from, I don't know, the way I part my hair or something."

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock snapped, "the science of deduction is not a parlor trick. I can't read your mind."

"But your brother could have given you my file."

The detective sniffed, "If I needed to do a background check I would've done one myself. I'm very thorough."

John rolled his eyes and held up his hands as if conceding the point, "Fine, fine. But otherwise yes, I'd recommend surgery. She's got two you know."

"Two what?"

"Ovaries."

"And?"

Another exasperated sigh, "Forget I said that. Tea?"

"Yes."

Levering himself up John walked into the kitchen, shaking his head as he put the kettle on and pulled out the tea supplies. "You meant," John made an awkward spluttering noise as Sherlock popped up beside him, "that surgically removing her affected ovary would probably remove the need for chemotherapy."

It took the doctor a few seconds to regain control of his heart rate, "Yes, Sherlock. However, it isn't a guarantee that she would be cancer free. There's no way to tell whether or not the other ovary would develop a tumor as well."

A low, considering hum was all he received in answer, followed by the rapid tapping sounds of a text message being written. When the tea was finished he poured some water and a splash of milk into each cup, along with the appropriate amount of sugar. Plunking a mug beside his companion John leaned against the kitchen table and considered the expression on Sherlock's face.

Lips pursed, brow wrinkled, and shoulders tense; the only signs of frustration Sherlock usually allowed to show. John was going to have to tread lightly around him for a while if he didn't want to end up in a shouting match. Rows were inevitable when the combination of boredom, frustration, and family were on Sherlock's mind.

There was the ping of a received message and Sherlock frowned at his phone before typing out a reply. The frown deepened into a grimace at the next message received, and the reply to that was nearly pounded out on the keyboard. Sherlock actually growled as he hit send.

"Mycroft refusing to listen to you?"

"No, my father demands a secondary opinion from the family physician. I pointed out that the family physician is not an oncology expert, and Mycroft pointed out that neither am I," the detective stared as the phone pinged again.

"You're pointing out that I am?"

"Yes. Let's see what my smug brother says in answer to that."

The only answer he received from that statement was the sound of the newspaper opening. After a long moment without the sound of a reply, John let the top part of the paper fall over and gave a quizzical look at his companion. Feeling himself being stared at, Sherlock looked up from his mobile screen.

"You never told me you had step-siblings," John sounded contemplative.

Sherlock smirked, "You never asked."

"Touché," John smirked back, straightening his paper "Can't say I'm not curious now though. After all, I've only lived with you for a year and change. I can only imagine how batty they must be."

At the awkward silence fell and when Sherlock began to pace John sighed and put down his paper, "Ok, I'm sorry, Sherlock, that was out of line."

"No, no, John," the detective whipped his mug up and leaned down to pick up the broken bow on the floor, "I'm well aware of my shortcomings. We discussed it the first time we met, remember?"

"Doesn't mean I should have said that."

"Nonsense," Sherlock 's phone alerted again. He nearly dove across the floor to pick it up. Suddenly, he began chuckling in a way that made John very nervous.

"What is it?"

"Mycroft showed father your credentials it seems. He requests your presence at the family manor."

John blinked twice and then shook his head, "I'm sorry, what?"

"This might actually relieve some of my boredom."

"What?" The doctor sounded just a little bit panicked.

"The effects of John Watson on the Holmes family. This is going to be quite the social experiment. The game is on, John. Go pack your bags."

Poor John looked like his brain had completely shut down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely got some stuff wrong this chapter. Just ignore my idiocy.


	8. Chapter 7

Normally, a train ride with Sherlock meant half an hour of case discussion followed by an hour or so of rapid fire deductions that left them in a relatively empty car. However, the ride to the Holmes' manor was over 4 hours, and there was no case to discuss. If John hadn't been so nervous to meet the rest of Sherlock's family, he probably would have made himself sick trying to think of how to keep the detective occupied.

Probably the most fortunate part was that Sherlock had managed to procure a cabin for them, which meant there would be no annoying spoiled children or excessively chatty ladies to bother them or cast funny looks at them. That meant it would be nice and quiet, and John wouldn't have to smooth any ruffled feathers. It also meant there would be nothing besides John to distract the genius when he inevitably began to get bored.

That thought alone was enough to send both men's higher brain functions into a slight panic. Sherlock didn't want to start a row by saying the wrong thing, and John didn't want to set off one of Sherlock's childish temper tantrums. Then, of course there was the thought that they wouldn't have anything to say to the other without a case to hash out.

After half an hour of silence, just when Sherlock was beginning to fidget, John had a frankly brilliant idea. He'd only grabbed it as a last minute choice and he wasn't even sure it would work. Reaching over to his carry-on, he pulled out a small, hinged wooden box and moved to sit beside his friend.

"I picked this up in Italy on my way home. Since Clue-do is out, I thought we might try something that requires a little more skill." John unfolded a small, magnetic chess set of ebony and ash wood.

Sherlock's eyes actually lit up. "You're challenging me to a game of Chess? Really?"

"Well, considering I left my cards home, yes."

The detective tucked up a leg and leaned his back against the wall of the train, "Alright then. I'll play black."

"Right then, I'll go first." With proficient speed, John set up the pieces and slid his first pawn forward.

Nearly an hour later, they were halfway into the game, finding themselves evenly matched in skill. It had been years since Sherlock had the chance to actually play so he was fairly out of practice. On the other hand, John had plenty of practice during boring days in the field hospital. While Sherlock thought 2 moves ahead, John still managed to move just the right piece to foul his plan. It was so pleasant that both men actually felt themselves relaxing.

"You picked this up in Italy you said? Layover?"

John hummed an affirmative, sliding his last bishop a few spaces. "Yes, stop off in Rome. Three hours! Bloody ridiculous if you ask me."

"It's handmade, very beautiful. Cost quite a bit of Euro I assume?" Sherlock swept up a pawn with his last knight.

"Not really." John swept up the knight with his last rook. "I got a good deal on a few of them when the son of the man selling them recognized me."

"Oh?"

"I saved his arm during a recon mission outside of Kandahar before I took the round in my shoulder. I've got a backgammon, a checkers, and an Othello set too."

Both men fell into companionable silence until Sherlock nudged his queen across the board. "Check."

"Good move." John grimaced and pushed his king back a space.

"Same to you." Sherlock sounded a little sour, but his frown turned back into a smile when John flashed him a satisfied grin. "I don't think I've ever played Othello."

"It's a little like Go except you fight to change every piece to black or white depending on the color you're playing. Sort of a really complicated tic-tac-toe."

Bishop to E5. "Sounds awkward."

"I can't really explain it well. I'll teach you to play sometime." Rook to C3.

Sherlock held out his hand and, without thinking John immediately placed the water bottle he'd been sipping from into his friend's open palm. The detective slid his queen over to take care of John's last rook. In retaliation, John slid his only bishop all the way to the edge of the board, just as Sherlock placed his mouth on the lip of the bottle.

"Checkmate."

Thankfully, John had spoken before the small surprised hum went past his friend's lips. It would have been very embarrassing otherwise for Sherlock to try to explain why he was surprised by only a sip of water. All right, so it wasn't the water; it was a taste of what could only be John's mouth on the bottle. But that didn't stop Sherlock from hastily grumbling to cover his slip directly after swallowing.

"Damn, how did I not see that?" Sherlock passed the bottle back as his opponent chuckled. The doctor held up the bottle as if toasting to his companion and took his own sip. When John's eyes widened ever so slightly, Sherlock almost  _(almost)_  ripped the bottle back to demand an explanation.

"I believe I win."

"Hell," Sherlock huffed, deftly swiping his king from the board.

John laughed softly. "Would you like a chance to redeem yourself?"

"Definitely." All ire forgotten, Sherlock reset the board as swiftly as he could, spinning it around so he now possessed the white pieces. "This isn't better than Clue-do."

"Trust me, Sherlock, it is."

The detective was determined to win this time, pushing his rusty skills to the limit. The game still didn't move very fast, though, mostly because John was trying his best to annoy his friend by taking a little longer than necessary to make his moves. It was still relaxing on both sides, even with the extra competition.

"The last time I played chess," Sherlock's voice was soft as he slid another pawn forward, "was with my father."

John shifted in his seat but said nothing, keeping his eyes focused on the board. If Sherlock was in a sharing mood, he would probably prefer not being stared at. There were days when the detective would just ramble on about anything because John was willing to listen without interrupting, and, most importantly, without judgment. It was one of the things Sherlock had missed most about his best friend.

"I think it was the only thing we had in common. He called me to his study and slammed the board on his desk. I don't think we talked for the whole game." He spoke as if relating a story told by someone else, as if he wasn't really part of it. John assumed it was his way of dealing with the pain. "When I beat him, the only thing he said was, 'Well, at least the drugs haven't rotted your brain yet.' After that, he lectured me for an hour and threw me out of the house."

Since there wasn't much John could say to that, the doctor opted for understanding silence. He checked the white king with one of his knights, letting the action speak for him. Sherlock chuckled and pushed his king to the side, out of the way.

"My step-father taught me to play," John offered. "I think it was his way of apologizing for me being stuck at home. He talked, I didn't." Telling his own story was harder for John. He remembered every bit of pain, every emotion, and, unlike Sherlock, he'd never learned to hide it. "He tried to explain why he'd done it, how it would never happen again. I think I beat him on principle."

Sherlock took a black rook with his last bishop, and very softly asked, "What did he do?"

For a long moment, John was very quiet, simply staring at the board. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer. While he slid his chosen piece across the board, he looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. "He and my mother whipped me with a belt and a wooden spoon when my sister came out to them. They were trying to hit her but I blocked the way." The black queen snapped up a white knight.

For once in his life, Sherlock wished he wasn't as observant as he was. The deadness in John's eyes was physically painful; it made his heart ache and his stomach nauseous. His friend looked haunted, as if the memory itself were playing in his mind. Sherlock's father had been a stern but fair man, and he'd never raised a hand to harm his children. This was not familiar territory for the detective and he hated not knowing what to say.

John waved a dismissive hand, as if telling his friend to forget that he'd spoken at all. As good as he was taking pain away from someone, he was twice as bad at sharing his own. There were too many scabbed over wounds in his past, anyway, and he didn't need anyone picking at them.

In Sherlock's limited experience with social niceties, he understood that the simplest touch could convey anything from threat to succor. He had been on the receiving end of John's healing touch quite often, and, in a way, it did work small wonders. While he slid his last bishop over to check the black king, Sherlock also reached out a slightly trembling hand and laid it tentatively on John's knee.

A soft smile ghosted onto John's face. Lifting his king from the board, he accepted defeat. He laid his calloused hand over Sherlock's, stroking his thumb over a pale finger.

Instead of tugging his hand out, Sherlock spun the board around and began to reset the pieces one-handed. John took the moment to pack his pain back behind its usual barrier, gazing at the pale hand beneath his tanned one. In the sense of physical affection, Sherlock was not a tactile person, which made every touch like this one a rare prize.

When he felt more in control of himself John pushed a pawn forward, freeing the detective's hand. The way the doctor's fingers slid across Sherlock's skin left a trail of warm fire that made the detective's whole arm tingle. As he slid his own hand off John's knee, the doctor felt that same pleasant fire all the way to his toes.

It was a small moment of comfort, but Sherlock was proud of it just the same. What did it matter if they stayed that way, just playing chess and enjoying each other's company, for the rest of the ride or the rest of their lives? In that single stitch on the tapestry of time, they were whole.


	9. Chapter 8

Arriving at the station, John and Sherlock were greeted by a pompous looking man in a dark green suit, holding a small sign with their names. John turned the trolley with their luggage over to him and both friends walked out into the sunset side by side. The doctor nearly bolted at seeing the sleek black town car outside.

Once the driver and Sherlock both confirmed that, no, Mycroft had not come to fetch them personally, John slid uncomfortably into the rear seat. The detective followed him in and immediately pushed up the glass partition between the front and rear of the vehicle. John did not relax.

"It's another half hour drive out to the manor, John. At least we're doing it comfortably."

"This from the man who insists on taking a cab everywhere even after a cabbie tried to kill him."

Sherlock took a good, long look at his companion. "Is it meeting my family that's making you nervous or is it their wealth?"

John smirked. "Definitely not the wealth."

"You have been shot in the bloody sands of Afghanistan, performed surgery under fire, shot a murderous cabbie, been kidnapped by a Chinese smuggling ring, been strapped to a bomb by a madman, dealt with The Woman, helped unearth an illegal government scientific experiment, seen your best friend jump from the roof of a hospital, gone back to war, and, most importantly, defied Mycroft and lived with me." Sherlock primly crossed his arms and legs. "You are the bravest man I have ever known. The last thing you need to fear is my family."

"Thank you for that." John turned his face away to stare out the window at the passing landscape. "But, at least with those things, I had some notion of what I was getting into. The only thing I know about your family is that your brother is a pompous ass."

The detective began to chuckle warmly. "That he is."

Silence fell between the two men, but it was less comfortable than Sherlock had hoped. Stroking John's ego hadn't worked as planned. That meant only one thing - time to state the facts.

"My father is a retired lawyer who likes nothing more than asking why his younger sons can't be more like Mycroft. My step-mother, Marguerite, is an accomplished pianist and an art lover and collector. Hannah, my younger step-sister, is also an accomplished pianist. Russell, my older step-brother, is partnered with a corporate attorney." He paused for a moment and then added, "Mycroft, as you know, is the government. Is that enough information to allay your discomfort?"

"No," John tossed him a devil-may-care grin, "but I'm sure by the time we get to your mansion, I'll be more of my usual self."

Again that blasted silence. Why was this so hard? Why couldn't John do what he did and just deduce things for his own bloody self?

"Fine." Sherlock's voice was tight and held a tone of disapproval in it. "Father used to work as a defense attorney for quite a few very prestigious corporations and made a very tidy sum of money that allowed him to procure Mummy's favors. He had an affair with dear Marguerite the year before Mummy died of a heart attack. The mistress became Mistress of the Household 8 months after Mummy was buried. Hannah and Russell moved in just as I was shipped off to a university and Mycroft had just accepted his first position within the British Secret Service."

"Sherlock," John tried to interrupt, turning to face his friend with a concerned crease in his brow.

"Mycroft brought me home quite heavily under the influence of a particularly bad batch of cocaine after several months at that university. Hannah was the only person that would speak to me and, as we shared an interest in music, we used to play together in the conservatory. Russell disapproved of me in general and persuaded Marguerite to persuade Father to ship me out again."

"Sherlock," John interjected worriedly as his friend had begun staring resolutely at the glass partition of the car with a glazed look in his eyes.

"Once again, Mycroft brought me home and forced me to go cold turkey by locking me in a room alone for several weeks. I don't remember how many because the days blurred together after a while. Hannah snuck inside once to try and help distract me, and Russell caught us in a rather compromising position as we'd just fallen on the floor from jumping on my mattress. Regardless of both my and Mycroft's attesting to my homosexuality, my father and Marguerite forbade Hannah and I from ever being alone together again. That was the same day Father called me to his office to play chess." The detective took a deep breath. "You already know how that ended. I went back to yet another university at Mycroft's expense, and, lo and behold, here I sit."

There was a long pause before John finally spoke again, "You are finished, yes?"

"John, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm done with drugs?"

Sighing, the doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. "I meant with that rather impressive bout of psychological diarrhea."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked. John detected the faintest hint of a shamed blush staining the detective's pale cheeks as their eyes met once more. "Yes, I'm finished."

"I appreciate your trying to ease my nerves, but they have nothing to do with you."

"Of course they do," the detective turned his face to the window, "because you're worried that my family will judge you because of your relationship with me."

"We have a friendship, Sherlock, not a relationship." John was sounding more exasperated than nervous now. "And I'm worried they will judge me for being the common middle-class man that I am, not because of anything to do with you." He rubbed his hands along his thighs and added softly, "There's nothing wrong with knowing you."

There it was again, that fluttering warm feeling in his stomach. It was starting to distress Sherlock how John could just say something so nice it made the detective want to hug the breath out of his friend. What was he, some attention-starved puppy?

While Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, he heard John take in a sharp breath. Judging by the manicured topiaries outside his own window, John had just glimpsed the front of the manor house. Surely now, the obvious display of the Holmes family fortune would make the doctor more nervous.

Although, the manor house really was rather lovely. The main building had been moved from the Lake District to the estate in Sherlock's great-great-grandfather's time, and his grandfather had ordered the construction of an additional conservatory, art wing, and library to expand it. It was open to public visitation as well, being on the historical record, and many of the rooms within were still decorated as they had been even during the Regency era.

"They better have you put up in a bedroom beside mine and not in the servants' quarters. If we manage to get a case, I'm not fumbling around the halls at all hours trying to find out where they've tucked you." Sherlock was frowning again. "Speaking of servants, they had a recent bout of thievery going on according to Mycroft so you may want to lock your bedroom door, even when you're in it."

"Afraid someone's going to make off with my jumpers?" Finally a good smile and a snarky remark from John. The doctor seemed to have found his backbone again.

"I highly doubt it. I'm fairly sure they've caught the culprits, but you never know."

The car wound around the drive and the house until it reached the rear entrance. Separated from the main portion of the house within by a very intricately carved double door, the private area of the residence was accessible only from this rear entrance. With a soft squeak of the brakes, the vehicle stopped before a dark green door.

"If I don't put the thought of locking your bedroom door in your mind, you'll forget to do it. At least, in hotels the locks are automatic or I'd have to remind you then, too. I think it's because you never lock your door at home." Sherlock watched a dapper butler exit the house and take charge of his bags. "Why is that by the way?"

The doctor's voice sent a shiver down the detective's spine, "It's an invitation."

John was out of the car in a moment, leaving Sherlock trying to remember how his lungs were supposed to function. That was NOT an answer he had expected. He was going to need to do some major re-thinking on the subject of his flatmate when he had a spare moment. Right now, though, he'd better get out of the car so John wouldn't face the family alone.

While his friend struggled to breathe, John leaned against the rear corner of the car with a small smirk gracing his lips. Even if he hadn't really meant his comment to come out that way, Sherlock's reaction gave him cause to hope. Maybe now the git would finally take the hint.

The doctor schooled his face as quickly as possible when Sherlock finally managed to pull himself out of the car. Both men moved to stand side by side before the door of the house, hands in their pockets. When it was clear John wasn't going to be the first one through the breach, Sherlock walked forward and opened the heavy wooden portal.

A wide room with a high ceiling, the foyer was painted a barely-there peach color. The walls were dominated by huge paintings of bright white flowers, from alliums to lilies, and trimmed with white moldings. Set in on the diagonal, the wooden, parquet floor was made of maple stained a warm golden brown. Three-quarters of the way into the room was a beautiful mahogany table carved to look like a squat tree with a wide, flat-topped canopy.

John looked around about as much as he had when they'd been summoned to Buckingham Palace. So, it was true then, the opulence didn't bother him at all. Servants, however, judging by his reaction when a butler appeared and whisked away their coats, did make him uncomfortable. Sherlock took the short opportunity they had while the family was being alerted of their arrival to study the picture he and his friend were creating.

Sherlock had dressed in his best grey suit, his favorite violet silk shirt, and his best dress shoes. John had worn crisply creased navy trousers, a periwinkle button down shirt, and a silvery-grey cashmere sweater, and smart, brown loafers. It looked to Sherlock like his friend had dressed carefully, but not specifically to make an impression. The detective himself hadn't dressed any different than he ever had, although he admitted to himself that he was trying to impress his family, which was probably why he was obsessing over the fact that John hadn't seemed to make a particular effort in that department.

Perfect, now Sherlock was nervous. He reached out and tugged the elbow of John's sweater. The doctor looked over at him in askance. "What is it?"

"Not looking to impress?"

"Why should I?"

Sherlock was (momentarily) stunned. "They're my family."

"Yes. Their opinion of my attire isn't really important to me." John rocked back a little on his heels, really looking at his friend. "But it's important to you?"

"No." Well, that didn't sound convincing did it?

The doctor sighed and shook his head, removing the sweater to reveal a rather dapper, dark blue waistcoat. He folded the sweater over his arm and looked up expectantly. "Better?"

This was followed by another stunned pause from the detective, who found himself unable to process the input of John in anything fancier than a collared shirt. It was rather distracting, really; it gave John the illusion of being all business, even with the sweater draped over his arm. That was going to have to go.

When another butler arrived to lead them on into the chosen receiving parlor, Sherlock had John leave the sweater with him. They stood before a golden-stained maple door, gathering their courage. After a deep breath, Sherlock nodded to the butler, who swung the door open and announced them in a deep baritone.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

This room also had a high ceiling, but it was much smaller than the foyer. Everything in it was a shade of green, from the palest jade to the deepest emerald. The diagonal floor continued and disappeared under a gorgeously woven Persian rug. Furniture of meticulously carved white pine topped off the whole room.

Sherlock strode forward with his usual confident swagger and John followed behind at his usual easy pace. The doctor hung back at the edge of the carpet, giving his friend time to greet the rest of the family and observing them all very carefully. While he might not have the deductive skills of his flatmate, the doctor could still judge character and emotional relations between the family members.

"Sherlock, dear, it's so good to have you home." Mrs. Holmes was a stately woman of perhaps 60 years of age. She wore a lovely cream-colored pantsuit with a lilac silk blouse. Her tone was affectionate, but more the way one would greet a particularly good friend than a beloved child. A single golden bangle hung around the wrist of the hand she extended up for Sherlock to kiss. "It's been far too long, my dear boy."

"It is above eight years at least I believe, Marguerite." Sherlock spoke just politely enough to not be considered cold.

She hummed softly in affirmation as the detective turned to the man beside her. Perhaps in his late sixties, Mr. Holmes was as tall as his 2 sons, with the same clear blue eyes and hair that had turned silver. He wore a black three-piece suit with the faintest white pinstripes and leaned on a beautiful ebony cane. "Sherlock," the senior Holmes sounded exactly like Mycroft, "I am surprised that you consented to come."

"Not nearly as surprised as I was to be summoned." Now Sherlock's voice was actually cold.

Mr. Holmes' face bore the barest hint of a frown and there was a distinct note of disapproval in his voice, "I summoned the doctor, Sherlock. Mycroft summoned you."

The detective hummed darkly and moved on to another man whom John assumed was his step-brother, Russell. Russell had the body of an ex-rugby player gone slightly to seed. He wore a suit similar to Sherlock's, except it was obviously made of tweed and still needed letting out to accommodate his growing belly. The two men shook hands without speaking. John could see by the tightness in Sherlock's face and the rigid set of Russell's shoulders that it was only out of politeness they touched each other at all.

Mycroft was dressed almost exactly like his father, and his usual umbrella was very much in evidence. John could see the faint outline of a leg brace through the elder Holmes' pant leg. The two biological brothers shook hands almost cordially. Obviously, the talk on the plane had gone better than John had been led to believe, or perhaps both men just decided to let the past stay in the past.

Finally, Sherlock approached a delicately-boned young woman with long blonde hair, dressed in an elegant purple dress. Her smile was genuine and warm, and she took both of Sherlock's hands in hers, pulling him down to press a soft kiss to both his cheeks. "Oh, Sherlock," her voice was light and airy, "I'm so happy you came. I've missed you."

"Hannah," John almost smiled at the soft tone of warmth in Sherlock's deep voice, "it's been far too long."

After a moment of glancing her over, Sherlock turned and lifted an eyebrow at John. Time to face the music, old boy. The doctor stepped forward and met Sherlock before Mr. Holmes.

"Father, may I introduce my colleague, Dr. John Watson."

Mr. Holmes the senior took John's offered hand in a firm, testing grip. Looking him over with a critical eye the man simply stated, "Mycroft has shown me his file on you, Dr. Watson."

John's courage did not fail him. "It says nothing good, I hope. I have a reputation to uphold."

The senior Holmes' lip twitched ever so slightly. "It is an uncommonly long list of military commendations, testimonials of your considerable medical expertise, and quite a few reports about your conduct in regards to my," he ran his eyes over Sherlock, "other offspring. Quite a reputation to uphold indeed."

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm just around to help Sherlock with the rent. And reports of my military commendations are highly exaggerated. You have me on the medical expertise though."

Sherlock relaxed minutely as John continued to face Mr. Holmes with the same bravado he used against surly police sergeants and rude forensic technicians. Why had the man even been nervous in the first place? The detective glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, who gave him a small, pleased smile.

Mr. Holmes slowly reclined back into his seat. "Dr. Watson, may I introduce my wife, Mrs. Marguerite Holmes."

"A pleasure, Mrs. Holmes." John gave a courtly bow over her offered hand.

"Mycroft has told me you take prodigious care of Sherlock." Her smile was pleasant, almost warm. Sherlock felt just a tiny bit envious. "You must be quite an uncommon sort of man to have become his colleague."

"I assure you, madam," John smiled wryly, "I am as common as they come."

Sherlock grasped his friend's elbow and moved over towards Russell. "This is my step-brother Russell Fitzwalter."

Russell's grip was just as testing as Mr. Holmes, but his strength could never compete with John's. "So, you're the infamous Dr. Watson."

"I don't know about infamous."

"I've also read your file, Doctor. Some of it seems rather unbelievable. I'm not one to trust the word of spies though."

"Then take Sherlock's word for it, Russell," Mycroft said primly.

"That's the last bloody word I'll take, Mycroft." Russell's tone was harsh.

"Gentlemen," John admonished, "may I remind you that there are ladies present. Perhaps we can save the brotherly disputes for later?"

Both Mycroft and Russell had the grace to look slightly chastised. Sherlock hid a smile by coughing politely into his hand. John turned his gaze up into his friend's face with a questioning raise of the eyebrow. The detective took him firmly by the elbow again and led him over to Hannah's side.

"Hannah, I'd like you to meet my friend, Dr. John Watson." The doctor took note of the change in Sherlock's tone from strict politeness to soft affection. "John, my step-sister Hannah Fitzwalter."

This time, John bowed and kissed the small hand in his and said, with genuine kindness, "It is a pleasure, madam."

"The pleasure is mine, Doctor." She giggled softly. "I never thought I would see the day that Sherlock brought a friend home."

"Hannah," the detective snapped softly, a small smile taking the sting from his tone. "Don't start." He could see the swift medical once-over John did when meeting any new person was more focused this time. "You'll make him nervous."

"The only thing that makes me nervous, Sherlock," there was wry amusement in the doctor's voice, "is when you say you're going shopping."

"Ha. Ha." Sherlock frowned down at his friend. "You're hilarious, John."

"Only on Thursdays."

Miss Holmes began to giggle again, which rapidly turned into a thin cough. John looked at her with his brow wrinkling in concern. She waved off his look with a graceful flick of her hand. "It's nothing, Doctor. I think it has simply been too long since I laughed that heartily."

Instead of saying anything, John looked thoughtful. Sherlock took a look at his friend's face, trying to deduce what he might be thinking about. Was he perhaps worried the chemotherapy was damaging her in some way? Would he begin medically questioning her right here, now, in front of the family?

Mrs. Holmes cleared her throat. "I'm sure you boys are very tired from your trip. Why don't you take the time before supper to get yourselves situated?"

"Certainly, Marguerite," Sherlock said quickly, "and am I to assume I shall be staying in my old room?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Holmes replied, "and Mycroft took the liberty of having Dr. Watson installed in the blue guest room across the hall from you."

"Very well." Even to himself Sherlock thought he sounded waspish. "We shall take our leave to freshen up for dinner in that case." Taking John's elbow again, Sherlock tried to make a hasty retreat.

John paused at the end of the carpet again, and bowed to the room at large, "It was a pleasure to meet you all. Thank you for your hospitality."

Mrs. Holmes seemed genuinely pleased by this, and smiled much more warmly than she ever had to anyone besides her own two children. Mr. Holmes deigned to incline his head in John's direction in acknowledgement, and Russell did the same. Mycroft and Hannah gave the doctor a small, knowing smile. Sherlock bristled slightly and almost opened his mouth to speak when John turned and grabbed hold of the detective's elbow and moved purposefully towards the door.

"Show-off," Sherlock mumbled as the door shut behind them.

John looked up into his friend's face and let out an exasperated sigh. "Stop that now, Sherlock. I'm on your side, remember?"

"Is that so?"

The doctor ran a hand through his hair. "Sherlock, listen to me right now. The only reason I was so polite in there is because I wanted to make a good impression for your sake. Because it was important to you. Judging by what I saw in there, the way they treated you, I'd much rather have been as rude as you usually are."

"Really?"

"Of course! You're their family and they treated you more like you were a barely tolerable acquaintance!" John's voice was beginning to rise a bit, so Sherlock grabbed him by the elbow again and pulled his friend down a hallway painted the same periwinkle as John's shirt.

"The door on the left," Sherlock said as they paused in front of 2 mahogany doors, "is the blue guest room where you will be staying. This one here is my room. I dragged us down here so you wouldn't alert them to your obviously less than stellar opinion of them."

Running a hand through his cropped blonde hair, John opened the door of his guest room and poked around in it for a few moments, trying to calm himself down. That warm fuzzy feeling was back in Sherlock's stomach, the one he got whenever John got protective. He was really starting to enjoy that feeling.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, taking in the room. Ebony wood furniture, sky blue walls, navy moldings and fabrics, all boring. At least it looked restive. John wouldn't complain about it, especially since it was about the size of the living room of their flat. John's luggage had been neatly piled beneath the window, and his grey sweater lay folded on the end of the bed.

"The truth is, John, I couldn't really care less what anyone else thinks about me as a person, just as long as they respect my intellect and expertise. That includes family, by the way."

"Remember how that policy worked out for you 3 years ago?"

Sighing, Sherlock flopped himself down in a plush armchair. "Point taken, John. I apologize."

"You what?"

"You know I hate repeating myself. I said I apologize."

"I just wanted to see if you'd say it again." Looking over at his friend Sherlock could see the satisfied grin gracing John's face and answered it with a lazy grin of his own. "Should I bother changing for dinner?"

"No. It won't be anything fancy. Your outfit is just fine. I'm certainly not changing."

"I figured that since you're sitting in my room and not puttering about your own." John tucked himself into the window seat, one leg dangling to the floor. "So, what should we do until dinner?"

For a long moment, Sherlock thought in silence. His family had always made a habit of dining at 7 o'clock on the dot, and it was only 5:30 now. What could they do with an hour and a half? The detective stood up and leaned against the window beside John's back, staring out into the landscape. Nothing seemed to have changed out there since his childhood.

"We have an hour and a half until they call us down," Sherlock switched sides on the window so he could see John's face, "so, we could play another game of chess."

"Or we could play backgammon. Or I could teach you how to play Othello." John was looking out into the courtyard, not even looking at his friend. He'd been enjoying the warmth at his side until Sherlock had moved.

"I'm sure there's a Clue-do board around somewhere." Sherlock moved as if to go find it, but John gripped his arm and tugged.

"No, Sherlock," the doctor said sternly, pulling until the detective rested against his side. John's arm was secure around the detective's waist. "We already discussed numerous times why we'll never play Clue-do again. For someone who hates it when people repeat themselves, you make me do it quite often." He hadn't even realized he was still holding his friend's waist until Sherlock tentatively slid an arm around his shoulders.

Slowly, the detective leaned against the doctor's side. This was definitely nice, he decided, as John was warm and solid beside him and the arm around his waist was comforting instead of intrusive. The doctor leaned back slightly against his chest and Sherlock could feel the shoulders beneath his arm begin to relax. Oh, yes, there was that fluttery warm feeling again too. How singular.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John glanced up into the detective's face. There was a strange look there that he couldn't quite name. Not that John had any complaints though. Sherlock was warm against him, lessening the chill from the window, and the thumb of the hand on his shoulder had begun to stroke the tense muscle beneath it.

The detective hushed him softly and relaxed further against his side. "You're interrupting my train of thought. I'm still trying to think of something to do."

Somehow, John got the idea that Sherlock was lying. He didn't particularly care though. He had enough to think about on his own, especially considering this strange acceptance of tactility by his less than tactile flatmate. Unbeknownst to the other, each man was thinking the same thought for a moment - this was going to take some experimentation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit OOC at the end, I know, but what can you do?


	10. Chapter 9

It was common knowledge in the Holmes household that Master Sherlock did not eat. New or veteran, the house and grounds staff all knew it. All the family members knew it. Even Master Russell's 2 Dobermans, Nero and Cleopatra, probably had an inkling of that fact, and they weren't even the smartest animals on the estate (that would be Byron the hog, but he was disinclined to even consider gossiping, thank you very much).

Everyone also knew that it was extremely unhealthy, which was why all of the members of the family used to insist upon his eating at every opportunity. Once, when he was a child, one of his nannies even tied him to a chair and force-fed him. The house maids all scolded and cajoled him by turns, trying to accomplish the impossible. Except for Miss Hannah, who could manage to make him reluctantly chew on some toast or a carrot very, very (very) occasionally, no one could make the young master eat.

Dinner that first night in which Master Sherlock had returned was a beautiful 3-course affair - salad, followed by rich tomato soup, then, a beautifully rendered platter of steamed vegetables and 7-ounce sirloin steaks. He had refused to eat a damned thing, rather rudely too, nearly making the serving maid burst into tears. Mycroft was the only one to raise his voice in protest at his brother's childish display. The rest of the staff had collectively sighed and wondered why the young master had even bothered coming to the dinner table.

When one of the serving maids, a sweet and timid young girl named Melissa, came out to serve the soup course to the young master's colleague, she found his salad untouched. At first, she thought that, perhaps, he was going to be as difficult as Master Sherlock, and she was loathe to even place the soup in front of him. To her surprise, when she placed the gently steaming soup bowl in front of him, he whispered to her (rather nonchalantly) to leave the salad and fork. He smiled at her confusion and winked conspiratorially.

As the main course was set before them, Master Mycroft suggested that the young master was being extremely impolite by simply staring about the table. This comment sparked the young master's temper, and a sniping match ensued between the two blood brothers, who toed right up to the line of decency with their insinuations and insults. Master Sherlock began to make a very pointed critique of his brother's dieting habits, lifting a hand, palm up, as if he was going to slam it down again onto the table. This was when the miracle occurred.

Quick as a lynx, Dr. Watson slipped his leftover fork onto that open palm and slid his salad beneath it. Instead of slamming a hand upon the table, the young master stabbed into the salad and punctuated his point by filling his mouth with a bite of salad. Master Sherlock ate the whole salad, continuing to insult his brother in between bites. The family was so shocked that most of them froze with bites of steak poised in midair before their mouths.

Master Sherlock finished his tirade by tossing his fork onto the salad plate with a loud clatter. He hadn't seemed to notice that he'd eaten, let alone finished, an entire salad. Not even Melissa collecting the plate from in front of him seemed to have tipped him off. Dr. Watson winked at her again and smirked when she removed his own dinner plate.

When the two colleagues retired to their own devices after dinner, Mr. Holmes remarked to Master Mycroft that perhaps, the good doctor wasn't as common as had previously been indicated. When it came to social status, yes, perhaps the man was as common as dirt, but that was where the banality stopped. Master Mycroft said nothing, merely staring at the closed door of the dining hall through which his brother and the doctor had just passed, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The next morning, Sherlock angrily called out John at breakfast for 'forcing' him to eat a salad the night before. He was halfway through a rather impressive string of insults to the doctor's intelligence when Hannah slipped quietly into the parlor and stopped dead at the sight of her (favorite) brother flailing wildly. Not that Sherlock flailing was anything new, he always gesticulated when he was irate, but flailing while holding a half-eaten piece of jam-slathered toast and a tea mug was definitely unexpected.

She started giggling breathlessly and Sherlock nearly gave himself whiplash turning to glare at her. While the look on his face paused her laughing fit, she immediately began again when she saw a smear of jam on his cheek and his chin. Her brother slammed his mug onto the table in a childish display of displeasure, and, at the sound, he looked down in surprise.

For a full minute, he looked back and forth at the tea mug he'd just placed down and the toast in his other hand. Then, his eyebrows drew together and he pointed a shaking finger in John's face, exclaiming, "You miserable bastard, you did it again!"

Cool as a cucumber, John replied, "Language Sherlock, there is a lady present."

"Damn ladies, damn toast, and damn you John Watson!"

The doctor smirked, not even looking up at his foul-mouthed friend, and turned the page of his newspaper. Hannah started laughing worse than ever and a maid had to lead her over to a chair by the arm before she collapsed helplessly on the floor. Sherlock looked absolutely thunderous with wrath, even as he swallowed his last bite of toast.

Instead of looking up at his enraged companion, John folded his paper and addressed Hannah with an affectionate smile, "Good morning, Miss Fitzwalter. I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson," she answered when she'd regained control of herself, "I slept very well. That's one good thing about chemotherapy, you sleep like a baby."

"Look at me this instant, I am not finished berating you yet!" Sherlock sounded absolutely mad with fury.

"Oh, stow it somewhere the sun doesn't shine, Sherlock." John was perfectly calm even as he winked at Hannah. "By the way, you have jam on your face."

Like a crazed two-year-old, the detective stomped his foot and whipped the napkin from the doctor's lap, scraping it over his face furiously. He threw the cloth back onto John's empty plate and stormed out of the room, pushing the door open so hard that it slammed against the wall with a loud crack. Hannah and the maid both gasped in frightened shock while the doctor put his hand over his mouth and bowed his head.

Worried that her brother had finally succeeded in cracking the good doctor's composure, she soothed, "He doesn't really mean it. He really isn't as angry as he seems."

For a few moments, the doctor's shoulders continued to shake, and then he looked up at her with shining, slate grey eyes. He removed the hand from his mouth and she realized he was grinning unrepentantly. "Believe me, Hannah, I'm well aware he's exactly as angry as he seems. It's the only way I can get him to eat."

Well, that set Hannah off laughing gaily again, and she discovered, as the doctor joined her, that her brother's colleague had a very pleasant laugh. "How did you find out how to make him eat?"

"It was an accident." John wiped some tears of laughter from his eyes as he calmed down again. "We were in a restaurant during this case we had in Camden and, for some reason, we got into an argument about the pros and cons of plastic gloves versus fabric or hide gloves." He looked thoughtfully confused for a moment. "I'm still not entirely sure how that particular debate came about."

Hannah sat a little more forward on her seat, carefully buttering a blueberry muffin. "So what happened?"

"I pointed at him a few times with my fork and, then, he just picked up his and did the same. I think he was trying to mock me. When he thought he'd made his point, he stole a piece of chicken off my plate." John took a swallow of tea and placed his newspaper on the table, a smug smile gracing his face. "After that, I took a page out of his book and experimented."

"You experimented on Sherlock?"

"He's done it to me often enough, and without my knowledge too." His smug smile turned a little vindictive. "I thought it was time to get some of my own back."

Incredulous, Hannah could only laugh again and put another piece of muffin into her mouth. Dr. Watson was, by far, the best person her brother had ever brought to the manor. After all the drug abusers, the dealers, the domineering queens, the foul-mouthed manipulators, Sherlock had finally found someone worthy of the moniker 'friend'. It made her happy that her favorite step-sibling had found someone so well-suited to balancing out his dynamic personality, and it made her sad that it had taken him so long to do so.

The doctor finished his tea and smiled up at the maid who came to clear his plate. "Thank you, Arielle. You'll have to tell me where you found that delicious jam."

Smiling brightly, the maid dipped a curtsey. "I'll make sure you go home with a few jars, Dr. Watson."

"When did you learn her name?" Hannah asked when the girl had left the room. "She's been here for 2 years and I didn't know it."

"In medical school, I learned that if you knew a nurse's name and treated her with just as much respect and kindness as any other colleague, that nurse would nearly trip over herself to help you. When I joined the army, I found that the same principle worked with the people under my command there too. Ever since I realized it, I made a habit out of it no matter where I went." John gave her a 'Who knew?' kind of shrug. "It works on maids, hotel bellhops, train conductors, grocery store employees, forensic technicians, practically everybody."

"How very wise of you." Hannah smiled kindly at him. "I bet it comes in handy when dealing with Sherlock."

John snorted. "It helps me smooth things over when he inevitably insults whoever we're working with, yes. And God knows he does it every chance he gets."

"You lied to us, Dr. Watson."

The doctor looked taken aback, his grey eyes widening. "I beg your pardon?"

Hannah smiled in a sweet, mischievous way. "You said you were a common man. After last night and this morning? I've come to the conclusion you are quite an uncommon man."

He blushed. "I assure you, Miss Fitzwalter, I'm as ordinary as the sole of a shoe."

"No, Doctor," she cut off anything else he had to say by holding up a delicate finger and waggling it back and forth, "Anyone who can live with Sherlock, and, especially, manipulate him into doing something healthy, is an uncommon person. If you tell me you can also get him to fall asleep, I shall declare you special."

John looked at her for a long moment, his gaze steady and his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. Suddenly, he burst out laughing, and threw up his hands in surrender. "I confess, even  _I'm_ not that good. Whoever manages that feat would be special indeed. The closest I get is keeping an eye on him and catching the signs that a shut down is imminent."

Hannah wrinkled her nose at him as she swallowed the last of her muffin. "You speak of him as if he were some kind of robot."

"Sometimes, I wonder if he isn't." She might have been affronted on Sherlock's behalf if the doctor hadn't smiled fondly at the closed door when he'd spoken. He shook his head a little, seeming to laugh to himself, then turned his still smiling countenance back towards her. "Since you've finished your breakfast, I wonder if you wouldn't mind sitting down for a medical examination with me?"

"For once, I can say yes, Doctor, I would be glad to. How about we move along into my room?"

"Wherever you would be most comfortable, Miss Fitzwalter."

"I insist you call me 'Hannah'."

"In that case," the doctor rose and gave her a mockery of a formal bow, "lead on, Hannah. And I must insist you call me 'John'."

Laughing brightly, she took his offered hand and allowed him to escort her out of the room. "Very well then, John."

-MEANWHILE-

Sherlock was angrier than he had ever been before as he stormed down the hall in search of the conservatory. Who the hell did John think he was? How the hell long had the doctor been manipulating him into eating? Where did he get the balls to experiment on the great Sherlock Holmes?

As he reached the ebony door of the conservatory, he suddenly remembered that his violin was at home, and, not only that, his bow was broken beyond repair. Hell and damnation! He shoved the door open so hard it rebounded off the wall and clipped his shoulder as it returned to the jamb. Great, now he was going to have a bruise on top of being furiously irate and without anything to soothe himself with. Massaging his shoulder, he retreated out the glass doors and into the bright, warm sunshine.

The grounds had always been his favorite place to lose himself. If he wasn't able to practice music in the conservatory (and obviously he wasn't able to experiment), then he could damn well disappear into the old woods and wander the beaten paths. Out here, among trees that made him feel small and stone formations that made him feel young, he would be able to soothe his roiling mind and just think.

It took all the dexterity he possessed to climb the old apple tree in the orchard again, as he'd once done on a dare when he was 8. The rocky cliff and waterfall deep in the forest that he'd discovered at the age of 13, when his first friend had called him a 'disgusting queer', remained unchanged. Even the small cave, where a 15-year-old Sherlock had hidden after getting lost during a freak-out from smoking marijuana laced with acid (purloined by his first boyfriend), was still the same. Nature here had remained as constant as ever, as constant as the disapproval of his family and the loyalty of his best friend.

Thinking of John again opened up a whole new cascade of thoughts. It was like a torrent of ideas, observations, worries, and emotions had swept him up and, momentarily overwhelmed, Sherlock sat on an old log and put his head into his hands. This was more than a bit not good, this was nearly torturous. He was going to need a serious moment in his mind palace to tidy things up. But where to begin?

Breathing in deeply the warm summer air, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to access the room in which he'd carefully put away all the information he'd stored on John Watson. Words rose behind his eyelids - friend, soldier, doctor, healer, marksman, loyal, steadfast, soothing, calm, undaunted. Images followed soon after - John smiling and laughing, the 'bit not good' glare, a brow wrinkled with worry, arms crossed over a broad chest, a left shoulder marred by a twisted scar, steel grey eyes glinting down the sight of a Browning, slate grey eyes examining a wound. Now, the smells rose, as if fresh in his nose - tea, wool, medical gauze, antiseptic, cinnamon, citrus. Sounds ghosted in his ears - an adrenaline-drunk giggle, warm laughter even at an inappropriate time, 5 distinct hums (disapproval, interest, confusion, meditative, affirmative), an exasperated huff with a note of fondness.

Unbidden, the sensation of touch blasted full force into his brain - warm hands passing a hot mug, soothing hands smoothing over the tape of a bandage, a comforting press of the fingers, lines of fire left over the back of his hand, a secure arm around the waist, a solid shoulder bracing him up. Why wouldn't it stop? His hand sandwiched between a warm knee and a rough hand, precise but swift stitches sewing up flesh, the fluttering in his stomach when those slate grey eyes looked at him like he was the most brilliant thing in the universe. This was too much, this sense was too sensitive, too aware. Sherlock felt like he was drowning in it.

Opening his eyes, he was startled to feel very dizzy and disoriented for a long moment while his mental self stuffed everything back into the 'John' room and slammed the door shut. Breathing in ragged gasps, he put his head between his knees and tried to calm his racing heart. There was no way he was going back into that room again until he'd hashed a few things out. Let's try another room, shall we?

Time to test the door to the cupboard he kept his emotions in. He probably should have started here first, come to think of it, but there was no going back now. Involuntarily, he shuddered to himself. No, no going back to that room just yet.

Anger - Watson had manipulated him (quite successfully) numerous times into eating, Moriarty had tried to take his only friend twice and also manipulated him into terrifying that same friend, Mycroft spied on him and tried to run his life. Sadness/grief - he'd nearly broken his only friend, he couldn't save the old woman, Hannah might be dying of aggressive cancer. Glee - he'd killed Moriarty's assassin squad (mostly, John did kill that one man), he could beat John at chess (even if he had to work for it), Lestrade trusted him again because John had exonerated him.

Love - ? Yeah, that was a moot point. There was almost nothing stuck in that particular chamber of the emotion cupboard. Sure, there were a few faded family memories - his Mummy, a 14-year-old Mycroft carefully bandaging his skinned 7-year-old knee, Hannah clapping at the end of the first concerto he'd composed. But, otherwise none of the boyfriends he'd had occupied a space. They'd been deleted long ago, when he'd decided that he was unlovable because all they'd ever done was hurt him in one way or another. As far as he was concerned, romantic love was nothing but pain, and he could live without the inconsolable hurt of a broken heart. He'd had far too many of those.

A shuffling sound from behind alerted him that he wasn't as alone in the woods as he'd hoped. Turning around, Sherlock found himself face to face with a rather surprised looking male Doberman. Both of them stared at each other for a long moment and something chilly and heavy settled in his stomach. Sherlock had never really had any use for canines, and any he'd ever been forced to interact with seemed to hate him for no discernable reason. At least this dog wasn't a stray, it had a shining leather collar with the name 'Nero' stamped into it. Ah, one of Russell's prized guard dogs then.

With only a single growl to warn him, the hound launched itself forward, snapping at his arm. Sherlock leapt up in shock and instinctively bolted, the dog barking madly at his heels. No way was this going to end well. Unfortunately, fear had taken hold of Sherlock's mind, and all it could do was instinctually repeat 'flight flight flight' over and over again as his legs pumped endlessly down the trail. He paused only once to throw the door of the art gallery open, but that was just enough time for the beast to latch its slimy, fang-filled mouth around the detective's arm.

Yelping in pain, Sherlock tried to kick the beast away, which worked, except the dog's mouth ended up ripping through his flesh, even though it was protected by his favorite coat. Holy hell in a hand basket, did it hurt. Blood was nearly pouring over his hand as he shouted loudly for help. A quick-thinking butler with a broom came to his rescue and beat the animal back out of the door and slammed the portal shut.

Sherlock ran through the still-life part of his step-mother's collection, the hound's furious growl chasing him as his heart pounded in his ears. It felt like he was back again, in the foggy moor, in the chemical minefield of Baskerville, except he wasn't drugged with anything but stress hormones now. Sliding through the door into the women's exhibit, he slipped on his own blood and saw stars when his head connected with the marble floor.

Looking up, he stared at an unfamiliar painting of a strikingly haunting woman perched on a throne of ivory filigree. The painting's subject was an alien-looking woman, her milk-white skin was stretched drum tight over elegant bones, as if she possessed no muscles at all. Sharp and angular, her face had sunken cheeks and fathomless, slanted eyes as black as the night sky. Tar black hair flowed to her feet in soft waves and a myriad of tiny braids. Her chin rested in one talon-nailed, spider-like hand, and the other had a finger raised as if about to tap testily on the arm of her throne. Those nails looked wickedly sharp, and were painted the same stark white as her beautifully rendered Regency-style gown. The look on her face was mysterious and knowing, her red-stained lips curved ever so slightly in a smirk.

Pulling himself up until his back rested against a cushioned bench, he cradled his arm against his chest, waiting for the room to stop tilting around wildly. The background of the painting was a wasteland of sand, punctuated in the distance by a warped looking structure of awkward dimension and geometry. Over her left shoulder, an ochre and brown hydra was being held back by two half-naked men, a tall one with dark hair holding a knocked bow and a smaller man with sandy hair holding a sword and a torch. Three of the hydra's 5 heads had been removed and the necks seared. The heads were lined up in the sand to the left in the forefront, the blood pooling from them running up to the woman's slipper-clad feet. Those slippers were the same red color as the blood, and the red stain seemed to also be spreading up her skirt.

Somewhere, a butler was shouting at him and shaking him. Pain lashed through his arm like a scythe making him hiss and pull away from the manservant. No, he didn't want to get up, no, he didn't need to go to a bloody hospital. There was a perfectly good doctor somewhere in the house this very minute and everything would be all right if the servant would just stop shaking him, God damn it, and fetch his doctor. Where the bloody hell was Watson? Didn't he know Sherlock needed help?


	11. Chapter 10

After a complete examination, John had a pretty strong opinion that whoever the hell had the audacity to tell the woman she had cancer was in serious need of a whipping. None of the physical signs pointed to cancer, none of her blood tests or other bodily fluid analyses pointed to it, nothing in her charts pointed to it. When John got his hands on the quack who ordered her to get chemotherapy, he was going to choke the man to death on principle alone.

Hannah was impressed at the friendly but professional way Dr. Watson handled even the most delicate of subjects. At no point did she feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed or patronized. When he asked her a question he quietly listened to her answers, and he dismissed nothing as irrelevant. He looked her in the eye when they spoke, and never interrupted her no matter how long her answer was.

It was no wonder Sherlock trusted the doctor so implicitly. The man had a wealth of medical knowledge, had experience handling taciturn individuals, and he was willing to go the extra mile to make his patient feel comfortable and cared for. In Hannah's opinion, there was no better counterweight for her step-brother's personality.

"You have a chemo appointment tomorrow, yes?" At Hannah's nod John continued, "I'd like to order some additional tests for you. Have you ever been to a gynecologist?"

"Mummy didn't think it mattered as I have vowed to be chaste until I'm married."

"I'd like you to see one anyway." The doctor sat down beside her and rested his hands on his knees. "I have an idea I would like confirmed by another professional. If I am right, then you may never have to take a chemo treatment again."

"You mean I might not have cancer?"

John rubbed the back of his neck, "Personally? I don't think you do. I'd still like it confirmed, however. Tomorrow I'm going to go with you to the hospital and we are going to get you an MRI and an appointment with the resident OBGYN." A thoughtful look passed over his face. "You know, I don't have any write up of the concentration of chemicals they're using for your chemotherapy."

"I don't think Dr. Hammerstein ever asked for one."

"In that case," John tapped a finger against his lips, "I think I may have found a way to kill 2 birds with one stone."

"How so?"

"Sherlock's been bored, that's why he's been so waspish." Hannah nodded her agreement and the doctor smiled conspiratorially at her. "If I give him an experiment to do, it might take the edge off."

Clapping her hands in mirth, Hannah couldn't help hugging the man sitting before her, "John! What a wonderful idea!"

The doctor sputtered for a moment before disentangling himself from her arms and smiling broadly at her, in an embarrassed sort of way. "I do have them occasionally."

From outside the door came the sound of running footsteps. Whoever it was skidded to a halt and knocked frantically. John frowned and moved swiftly to open the door.

A young, breathless boy dressed in grass-stained jeans and a dirty shirt gasped out, "Master Sherlock's been bitten by one of the dogs! You'd best come right quick, Sir!"

"Lead on, Daniel," John said calmly, casting a look behind him at a now very frightened Hannah. "Hannah, I need you to run to my room and bring along the medical bag on my dresser. I'll be in the," he raised an eyebrow at the boy Daniel.

"Women's wing of the art gallery!"

Without a word Hannah bolted out the door, running down the corridor towards the guest room. John was hard on Daniel's heels as the boy pelted back down the hall, twisting and turning through the halls. Not bothering to mark the way (someone would help him if he asked), the doctor allowed his thoughts to wander. Dog bites were serious, and the thing that worried him the most was the possibility of Rabies. Don't think like that, you fool, no use trying to cross a bridge that wasn't even blueprinted yet.

Daniel collapsed into the arms of a middle aged maid John presumed was the boy's mother as they entered the gallery. Sat on the floor, before a large picture that made John's hair stand on end even though he wasn't looking at it, was a completely wretched looking version of Sherlock. The detective's beautiful coat was torn, his blood was soaking the floor, and his skin was deathly pale. Not even bothering to think about his own body, John slid to a stop by landing on his knees in front of his friend.

"Sherlock?" John spoke the name in a tone that might have been somewhere between worried and stern. "Look at me, Sherlock."

The detective was staring straight ahead at the painting on the wall, holding his bleeding arm against his stomach, completely unmoving. John saw Sherlock had used his scarf to make a tourniquet, and the doctor angled himself until he was in Sherlock's line of sight. Even though the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, the doctor resolutely kept his back to the painting.

"John."

With a sigh the doctor lifted a hand and leaned it over his friend's face. Sherlock flinched away with a confused look in his eyes. "Stop that, one of your pupils isn't the right size and I'm trying to test it. Did you hit your head?" He used his hand to block the light, testing the retraction and expansion of Sherlock's ice blue irises.

"Yes, I slipped. Also, I would have thought my bleeding arm would probably be the priority."

"You have a tourniquet on, so you aren't going to bleed out." John reached out with both hands and slid them through Sherlock's wavy hair. Focusing his eyes on some point over his friend's shoulder, the doctor carefully pressed his fingers into Sherlock's head. "Besides, if you fractured your skull or have a hemorrhage I think it's better to find out sooner rather than later."

Sherlock's shoulders and neck tensed as the doctor's fingers palpated his scalp, and he hissed loudly when John grazed the lump growing on the back of his head. John mumbled an apology as he gently tested the size of the injury, and ascertained that nothing else was wrong. The detective had to fight from shivering as John drew his hands back out of his friend's hair.

"Rather nasty lump you've got forming. You feel dizzy at all?"

"Bit."

"Room spinning or tilting?"

"Tilting. I also feel a little nauseous. Nothing too terrible."

Hannah practically skidded into the room as John removed his friend's coat to get a better look at the wound. She gasped in horror at the sight and nearly fainted. One of the menservants managed to catch her before she fell to the ground. John stood up and extracted his medical bag from Hannah's limp fingers and ordered her supporter to carry her back to her room. As an after thought the doctor also told the man to inform the rest of the family of the incident.

"Alright you," John stood in front of Sherlock, "think you can manage to walk to the nearest sink?"

"Nearest sink is in the kitchens, and I don't know if I can get up." The detective sounded very put out by his own momentary weakness.

John braced himself by leaning back on his heels and held out a hand. Sherlock took it without hesitation and practically climbed up his friend's arm. The doctor stood steady as a rock under the assault, not even tilting under the detective's nearly negligible weight. He didn't even budge when the detective leaned heavily against him.

"Still too dizzy?"

In fear of vomiting, Sherlock simply nodded. He closed his eyes hoping that perhaps it would help him regain his equilibrium. John shifted just a fraction and the detective nearly tipped over sideways. Immediately the doctor wedged his bad shoulder underneath Sherlock's good one and wrapped an arm around his reeling friend's waist.

"Will one of you lead us to the kitchens, please?" John asked the watching servants.

One of the butlers stepped forward and beckoned the doctor to follow. Half-dragging Sherlock, John walked a few paces behind the servant, paying more attention to making sure his friend didn't collapse than where they were going. Sherlock looked down at his determined friend twice until he finally caught the doctor's eye.

"Your shoulder is going to be killing you."

"Probably." John grunted as they rounded a corner, tightening his hold on Sherlock's waist when the detective threatened to topple over. "But it's not like you weigh anything in the first place."

"I believe I've put on at least 10 pounds in the past 2 days." Sherlock's knees wobbled dangerously and he snarled at his body's betrayal.

"From a salad, toast, and jam? I highly doubt it." John wedged himself a little further underneath his friend's shoulder, until he was nearly carrying the man. "Despite what you might think I only manipulate you into eating when I know you haven't done it for longer than 2 days."

"Why do it at all?"

"Because I know how much you hate hospitals, and that's exactly where you'll end up if I let you starve yourself." Depositing his invalid friend in a chair beside the kitchen sink, John rummaged through his medical bag for a needle and thread. "Paulette?"

"Who the hell is 'Paulette'?"

With a confused look at Sherlock, John replied, "The house chef."

A heavy set woman in a black dress covered by a dark green, flour stained apron waddled out of the pantry, "Is'at you, doctor?"

"Yes, Paulette, could you find some clean tea towels for me please?"

"Gracious Heavens!" She exclaimed, seeing Sherlock's mangled arm. "I'll be right back, Dr. Watson! Oh Lord!"

Sherlock waited until she bustled out of earshot before studying John's face as the doctor continued examining his wound. "You've been here less than a day and you already know the servants' names?"

John smirked at him while turning on the water. "You're not the only one who wanders when they can't sleep, you know."

Sherlock snorted, "Why do you insist on knowing everyone's name?"

"I have my reasons." Paulette returned with a small stack of towels draped over her arm, and a pair of tea-filled mugs which she placed on the counter. John smiled at her. "Thank you, Paulette."

"You need anything else at all, Dr. Watson, you just shout for me, okay?" The chef waddled off again, back into the pantry.

Dampening a towel, John got to work carefully cleaning his friend's wound. Sherlock was confused about why it didn't seem to hurt in the least. In fact, he was barely able to feel the heat of the water. It was a little disconcerting until he remembered that he had a tourniquet on.

"I can't feel my forearm, John. You don't have to be gentle, you know."

The doctor turned to look his friend in the eye, "I'm trying not to do any more damage than has already been done."

Silence fell for a long moment as John threaded his needle and began to stitch with the speed of a battle surgeon. He'd never admit it, but Sherlock had a strange fascination with what he referred to as John's 'Doctor Mode'. He enjoyed studying the way Dr. Watson silently assessed an injury with steel-grey eyes and steady hands, the graceful and precise (but speedy) way of stitching, even the gentle bedside manner. It was all oddly interesting, especially when all that medical knowledge was focused entirely on Sherlock himself.

In less than a minute, John had brought Sherlock's flesh together with straight, even stitching. Releasing the tourniquet, the doctor held his friend's wounded arm by the wrist. "Tell me when the pain starts coming back. I don't think your arm has any nerve or muscle damage, but I'd like to be sure." They waited in silence again until Sherlock hissed loudly in pain. John hummed sympathetically, "Yes, I know it hurts. Sherlock, I need you to flex your hand and then curl it into a fist, one finger at a time."

Sherlock did as he was asked, grunting when his hand was finally fisted. John nodded in momentary relief. Now all he needed to worry about was whether or not his friend would have trouble with his grip. Unlike the doctor though, Sherlock had no worries at all except the pain. After all, John would see to it that the wound would heal properly and that no lasting damage would be done. No reason to waste precious brain power worrying unnecessarily.

The doctor passed over a cooled cup of tea, "Drink this while I take a look at that lump you've got on the back of your skull."

Once more those gentle fingers carefully slid through the detective's hair in search of the injury. Even though he was standing behind the detective, Sherlock knew the doctor would have his brow furrowed in concentration and his lower lip caught between his teeth. The detective allowed himself to close his eyes in pleasure as the doctor's talented fingers carefully caressed his scalp. His eyes flew open as a soft sigh sounded from behind him and John came back around. Dr. Watson took a slow swig from his own mug, frowning.

"We're going to need to get some ice on that, but it doesn't look too terrible. You still feeling dizzy or nauseous?"

"Not at the moment," Sherlock placed his half-empty mug on the counter, "but then again I haven't tried standing up yet. You are going to bandage this, yes?"

John's frown deepened at the slight tightness in Sherlock's voice. "Of course I am." Placing his tea mug beside him, the doctor lifted another damp towel and gently dabbed at his needlework. "I'm going to have Paulette fill one of these towels with an ice pack and you're going to hold it on your head. Ten minutes on and ten minutes off for the next 2 hours."

"Yes Doctor."

"Now don't get sour," John pointed a finger into Sherlock's face, "or I won't give you anything for the pain." Gently he stroked a dry towel over his friend's arm. He followed it with a clean, white pad of gauze which he taped down at the edges. "Paulette? Do you have an ice pack in the freezer?"

From the pantry the servant shouted, "Have one out for you in just a mo' Doctor!"

The doctor pulled a small vial out of his bag along with a hypodermic needle. It made Sherlock a little wary, especially because John, as a doctor, should have known better than to give strong painkillers to someone who enjoyed using recreational drugs. There was no way the detective was going to show that side of himself to John. Not ever.

"Relax," the doctor soothed, patting his friend on the shoulder, "it's not a painkiller. After Baskerville, I started carrying doses of V.C.R.V., if only because you never seem to get along with any animals we encounter. Also, the last thing I need is to watch is you go rabid."

Well, Sherlock could certainly see the logic in that, so he said nothing as his flatmate slid the needle into his arm and injected him. A small plaster was applied to the wound just as Paulette exited the pantry with a cerulean colored ice pack. She gathered up all but 1 of the unused towels, tossed the used ones into a hamper next to the pantry, and bustled out the far side of the kitchen with a wink and a smile to the doctor.

"Just once I'd like to meet someone who despised you," Sherlock grumbled moodily.

"You have met Anderson and Donovan, yes?"

The detective snorted derisively, "They don't despise you. They pity you. It isn't the same."

John shook his head and rolled his eyes as he wrapped the ice pack in the towel and handed it over. Obediently Sherlock placed it carefully against the back of his head, hissing softly. Making sure his friend wasn't pressing down too hard, John turned his own eyes back to his bag and rummaged through it until he'd located a bottle of generic acetaminophen.

Of course, Sherlock knew exactly what John was searching for, and in a sudden bout of petulance the detective decided he wanted to make his friend uncomfortable. It was childish really, the way he always felt whenever someone was immediately fond of John, and it made him want to act accordingly. Sherlock picked up his half-empty mug in his injured hand while John studied the pill bottle in his hand.

"Three should do you for now, and they're rapid release so you should feel relief fairly swiftly." He tapped out 3 pills into his palm and frowned.

Since Sherlock had filled his injured hand with the handle of his mug, the man was without a free hand. The detective smirked around the lip of the cup as he sipped, then put the mug down on his leg and opened his mouth expectantly. John's face went from frowning to a bored sort of 'Really?' look that made Sherlock lift an eyebrow as if to say, 'Well?'.

Glancing at the slight shaking of the hand holding the mug, John realized he had 2 choices - give in and just put the pills in Sherlock's mouth, or wait until the mug inevitably slipped when the weak, torn muscles of Sherlock's arm lost their grip. He remembered his own arm injury; the way his pride had suffered every time he lost his hold on something. If there was one thing Sherlock had, it was pride, and the man had it in spades. John sighed and swallowed his dignity, cupping his hand in front of Sherlock's open mouth and tipping it until the pills slid in.

To say that Sherlock was surprised would be to say that sticking a fork in an electrical socket was shocking. Not that he wasn't used to John simply giving in to even the oddest of Sherlock's whims, but for the man to do something so nearly intimate? So personal? Trying to cover his momentary shock, the detective brought his mug back to his lips to finish off the tea.

The way the doctor stared intently as he brought the mug up and drank actually made Sherlock a little nervous. Was John thinking about how his actions would look to an outsider? Pain stabbed suddenly through his arm and his fingers released their grip, sending the mug tumbling. John caught it with ease and placed it safely back into the sink with his own empty mug. Realizing that John had known, and had been waiting for, his injured arm to lose its strength, Sherlock gritted his teeth in disgust at himself.

Not even looking at him, John said softly, "Stop that, you'll hurt your teeth, and you hate the dentist twice as much as the hospital." The doctor gave his friend a wicked smirk, "Personally, I think it's because you can't talk at the dentist."

"Oh shut up."

A warm chuckle from John, coupled with the fact that he hadn't said a word about Sherlock's loss of muscle control, made the detective relax. Of course John wouldn't make a big fuss about it, the man had dealt with his own shoulder being blown apart by a bullet. He understood how arm injuries worked, and most importantly of all he knew how prideful Sherlock was. Good old Dr. Watson, always understanding.

"John leaned back against the counter and looked his friend sternly in the eye, "Ok, we'll see if the swelling goes down after those 2 hours are up. If not we'll do another hour with the ice pack." The doctor pointed his finger into the detective's face and his voice picked up it's military edge, "No arguments. No whining. No running around with the damn thing taped to your skull. And you will tell me immediately if you feel nauseous or dizzy, or you feel any pressure or aching in your head. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir." Sherlock gave his friend a flippant salute.

"You are not funny, and I am being deathly serious right now." Even though John wasn't moving at all, his darkened tone made Sherlock feel cowed and crowded. "Head injuries can be very tricky, and if anything is wrong with your head especially I want to know promptly so I can do something about it." Now John did lean forward, his steel gaze inescapable, and his voice balanced between that commanding timbre and a dangerous octave that threatened to turn Sherlock's insides into water, "Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?"

Meekly the detective nodded, unable to speak. A small part of him was, dare he say, quite frightened of John when the man used that voice. Sherlock was used to being the imposing one of their dynamic duo, but at this moment the force of John's presence was smothering him. Unable to continue the stare, Sherlock turned his gaze down to where his uninjured hand toyed with the torn sleeve of his shirt.

Paulette reappeared in the kitchen, gathered up the used mugs, and moved them to another sink. Pulling out a bottle of cleaning solution and a sponge she leaned against the counter, "If the pack starts to warm you just send word down here, Master Holmes, and I'll send another one up right quick."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied stiffly.

Satisfied his patient would comply with his orders, the doctor frowned at the doorway of the kitchen as Paulette began to hum while scrubbing the sink. There had been no sign of the rest of the Holmes clan or even a curious servant, and that not only worried him, it made him angry. Their family member had been injured (in a way that might easily have been fatal), and they hadn't even bothered to inquire after Sherlock's health?

John nearly tore his neck whipping his head around when Sherlock whimpered pitifully. The doctor's eyes nearly bugged out of his head seeing the detective frowning sadly down at the torn shirt sleeve. When Sherlock looked up, with a lost sort of look in his eyes, John had to fight down a very strong urge to wrap his arms around his flatmate's shoulders and hug him.

He met his impulse halfway and placed comforting hands on his friend's slightly slumped shoulders, "What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"My coat," the childish detective whined, "is probably ruined. I liked that coat."

Without actually thinking about it, John gently ruffled his friend's hair and fondly smiled into the detective's eyes. "We left it in the gallery. I'll go find it and see what kind of damage it's suffered. Why don't you go back to your room and I'll fetch it?"

Thankfully John didn't seem to pay too much attention to his friend as he left the room. If he had, he would have realized that his colleague was frozen in place. No one had ever ruffled Sherlock's hair before, nor had anyone ever smiled at him with such obvious affection in their eyes. Since he had no data for reference, he really didn't know how what to do.

He and John were not particularly tactile men, but since their reunion it seemed they physically reached out for each other more often. Sherlock chalked that up to a need for each man to reaffirm that the other was real and present. Not that it wasn't enjoyable; the detective was beginning to find he rather liked the way John touched him, mostly because of the pleasant feeling in his chest that accompanied it.

Well, there was no point sitting around here in the bloody kitchen when he could be lounging in his bedroom. Sherlock gingerly stood up and was relieved to discover he was no longer dizzy. Quietly he made his way back to the wing in which his bedroom was located, avoiding all the places his family might have been congregating. The last thing he needed was for Mycroft to sneer at him or his parents to fuss at him. Right now, all he wanted was to lie down and think about his body's sudden enjoyment of the physical touches of John Watson.

Rounding the corner into the hall where the sleeping quarters were situated, Sherlock thought he heard a muffled 'thud'. He paused, wondering if someone had dropped something or perhaps fallen over, and waited for the sound of his footsteps to quiet. In the ensuing silence came another sound so unmistakable he immediately dropped the ice pack and bolted down the hall.

Sherlock had been a detective for years, and experience told him that the sound echoing in the corridor was from a small caliber pistol. Skidding to a halt in front of his sister's open door, he was greeted with the unwelcome sight of his sister splayed out dramatically on her white bed. A bright crimson blotch was growing in the white fabric of her sundress and he rushed immediately to her side, wishing he'd kept his mobile in his pants pocket instead of his coat.

Momentarily panicked, Sherlock didn't notice that the door behind him had been swung open again until it banged shut. Distracted, he shoved the door wide open again and turned to look down the hall in the direction he'd come from. He saw nothing that way so he turned to look back the other way, and caught the flash of a shiny men's shoe and the flicker of a navy trouser leg as it disappeared into another room.

Instead of giving chase, the detective turned back into the room and whipped up the receiver of his sister's landline phone, then dialed Mycroft's number. Gingerly he took one of Hannah's sheets and pressed it against her bleeding abdomen. It felt like ages before his brother nasally answered the phone.

"Mycroft, call an ambulance. Now. Someone's shot Hannah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little explanation - V.C.R.V. is the human rabies vaccination.  
> I did not know at the time I wrote this that Rabies doesn't exist in the UK. Please excuse my ignorance. I have not changed it, as you can plainly see, because I don't think it is integral to the overall effect of the story.


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what I am about to do to your feelings, I am sorry.

John got lost a total of 4 times trying to find his way back to the Women's Wing of the gallery, until he finally located a maid who kindly put him to rights. By the time he'd made it there, he was exceedingly frustrated with himself and more than a little cross that he'd volunteered to get his friend's coat. Really, what had possessed him to drag himself back here for a bloody coat?

Kicking the door open to release a bit of frustration, the doctor glanced around the floor in search of any sign of Sherlock's favorite piece of clothing. He expected to at least find it lying over the bench the detective had been laying against. Instead, he found it folded extremely neatly on the floor beneath the curtained painting.

As he bent down to lift up the coat an eerie feeling, like being watched, tugged at his brain. He scooped up the coat and stepped back slightly, studying the grey curtain drawn over the portrait Sherlock had been staring at. Curiosity was the only thing that made him reach out to the string and retract the curtain. Immediately he backed up against the bench and stared.

From knowing smirk to delicate slipper, every piece of the painting seemed to have been chosen specifically to make John's insides turn to jelly. He glared up into the dark eyes of the White Lady feeling both put out and a little frightened. Sherlock had been staring at Her, seemingly transfixed, when John had finally entered the gallery, and it made John wonder what Her purpose was in being there. Her countenance made no motions no matter how long he looked at it, and he rolled his eyes at the obvious visual reminder of his mission behind Her.

"Beautiful, isn't she? I call her the Ivory Queen."

John turned his head so quickly he was sure it nearly snapped off. As a trained soldier, the doctor should have been able to notice someone walking up behind him, but he hadn't even heard Russell Fitzwalter enter the gallery. The man stood with his hands in his pockets staring at Her, a look of blind adoration on his face. It was disconcerting to say the least, especially because John knew Russell could have no idea what She was.

Russell turned until he could look John in the eye, "I found her in an estate sale in Turkey. Mum loves portraits with strong women as their theme, so it was a nice excuse to bring something so exquisite into the house."

"Yes," John said nervously, "yes it is quite lovely. She's…er…she's fantastic."

Sherlock's step-brother turned his face back to the portrait, sighing blissfully. The doctor took the opportunity to shake out his friend's coat to examine the torn sleeve. He chuckled to himself when he realized the coat was fine, in fact, it looked brand new. A glance up at Her knowing smirk and John had to fight the urge to casually salute in gratitude.

"That's the wonderful thing about art, isn't it? No subject is taboo." Russell sighed again and walked forward to stroke a hand over the painting's legs. "It's a fairly recent work done by a local English artist. I've been thinking of commissioning him to do a portrait of Nero and Cleopatra."

"Don't you mean Anthony and Cleopatra?"

"No, Doctor," the man chuckled in a cold, familiar way that made John very uncomfortable, "I mean my dogs. Only this artist could capture their beauty."

John's head snapped up alertly, "Your dogs?"

"Dobermans. I raised and trained them from birth."

The doctor nervously ran his thumb over the side of his index finger as he thought rapidly, "Sherlock was attacked by a dog. Not half an hour ago."

Russell turned, face shocked, "Oh God, it must have been Nero! He recently began digging his way out of the dog run. Nearly bit one of the stable hands not 3 days ago. He's not hurt is he?"

Well, that was some relief. But John still wasn't convinced that something wasn't wrong here, with this man. Besides the unnatural obsession with the painting, of course, because that was just awkward really. Sure, She was lovely in Her own extraterrestrial way, but did he really have to paw at Her like that?

"No, I stitched up his arm. He should be just fine in a few days."

"Not the freak," Sherlock's step-brother hissed, "Nero! That bastard didn't hurt him did he?"

John's brow furrowed deeply and he answered in a clipped tone, "I'm sure your bloody dog is fine. Provided of course it doesn't have rabies."

"Of course not." Russell waved dismissively with the hand not occupied with stroking the painting.

Perhaps John had picked up some of Sherlock's deductive skills, or more likely the other man's odd actions had made him more observant. In any case, the brief glimpse he got of Russell's hand was all John needed to notice that the man had powder burns on his skin. A short sweep of the eyes as the man shifted his suit jacket was all the doctor needed to notice the butt of a very fancily decorated pistol stuck in his belt.

_-MEANWHILE-_

Mycroft did more than call an ambulance; he called in a medical rescue helicopter, and rushed to his brother's side. Sherlock hadn't been sure the man could move that fast, especially since the diet obviously hadn't been going as planned. Not only that, the man arrived without his umbrella, which the detective assumed he'd left leaning against his chair in the parlor with Marguerite and Father.

"Did you even bother telling them what was happening?" Sherlock grunted as he was shoved out of the way by an EMT.

Mycroft gripped his brother's elbow and pulled him off to the side, "Of course I told them. They're waiting in the foyer to accompany her to the hospital. And where, dare I ask, is Doctor Watson?"

"Gallery. He went to go find my coat."

"You didn't see who shot her?"

"Gucci loafers from last season and a navy Westwood suit. Small caliber hand gun, probably a pistol, French design. Close range shot. No forced entry to the room so she knew him." Sherlock's eyes were closed as he rambled off deductions. "Did she have any suitors about?"

The elder Holmes brother waited until Sherlock gave him an angry glare before responding, "Yes, she has a few suitors. So far her favorite, James, is the only one allowed at the manor. They are, however, always chaperoned."

Westwood. James. Impossible. "Mycroft," Sherlock growled but was cut off with an abrupt swipe of his brother's hand.

"It is not Moriarty; I have met the man myself." The elder Holmes stared down his nose condescendingly at the detective, "Besides Moriarty is dead, remember? And his whole squad of assassins has been wiped out."

Sherlock sighed, "A servant then? No, not in a Westwood, there's no way they could afford it with what that miserly old woman pays them."

"You really shouldn't talk about our step-mother that way, Sherlock."

"She never did any 'mothering' so I refuse to refer to her as such. I'd sooner refer to Mrs. Hudson as Mother than our father's wife."

Both brothers silently followed the rushing EMT's out into the hall in worried silence. When they reached the foyer, Sherlock took note of the furious expression on his father's face and the accusatory stare of his step-mother, both aimed in his direction. Instead of glaring back at them, because deep down somewhere Sherlock really was sure this had something to do with himself, the detective took note of his brother's open umbrella spinning on the floor where it had been abandoned and the curious absence of Russell.

Some spinning gear in his mind clicked into place and he grabbed Mycroft's arm as the man made to follow his family to the car that would take them to the hospital. "Where is Russell?"

Mycroft looked around and frowned, "Good question. I shall call him from the car. Perhaps he is checking on the dogs, since one of them bit you. He seemed quite upset at the news."

"He probably thinks I poisoned it."

"I would not put it past you."

Sherlock released his brother's arm, "I'm going to find John and then we'll follow along in one of the cars. Text me when you have any news?"

"Of course." Awkwardly Mycroft patted his little brother's shoulder, as if attempting to provide some sort of comfort. "Does he know about Hannah?"

"I texted him. He hasn't answered." Worry flashed very briefly across Sherlock's marble-like face. Hannah shot and John not answering his phone? John always answered when Sherlock called, and with news like this the man should have practically teleported to Hannah's bedroom. "Something tells me John's in trouble. If Moriarty," Mycroft didn't allow him to finish that thought.

"The man is dead, Sherlock. He shot himself in the head. There's no coming back from that. Perhaps we missed an assassin? Or it could just as easily have been someone with a grudge against our family. Do go find Dr. Watson and meet us at the hospital as quick as you can."

Instead of continuing to argue Sherlock turned and bolted down the hall in the direction of the gallery. Sometimes Mycroft was right, and this happened to be one of those times. Since he knew the old house even better than he knew the streets of London, so it took him little time to nearly skid into the gallery corridor. For a moment he paused to catch his breath, leaning against the wall until his leg muscles stopped screaming for oxygen.

High and cold, a laugh floated down the darkened hall and Sherlock's entire body turned to ice. That laugh, Moriarty's laugh, had haunted his dreams since the Pool, and now it was coming from the barely ajar door of the Women's Wing. His coat had been in the Women's Wing. John was in there looking for the coat. Obviously Moriarty wasn't as dead as everyone believed.

Adrenaline seared through his veins and Sherlock was off like a shot. Moriarty had always promised he would burn out the detective's heart, and with Hannah possibly dying in a Rescue helicopter and John not answering his phone, Sherlock felt his chest constrict. The two people he cared most about - his dear sister and his best friend. This would not do.

Sherlock shoved the gallery door open so hard he had to leap out of the way to avoid being crushed by it on the rebound. The room was empty except for 2 men, both of which were staring at him in alarm. On the floor, before the painting Sherlock had been staring at while wounded, was John, on his knees with his wrists bound behind his back. Russell was holding a beautifully designed French pistol, so decorative the detective wondered how it could be functional, in one hand and stroking the painting with the other.

No Moriarty. So where had the laugh come from? Sherlock darted his eyes about again swiftly until they settled on Russell again. Navy Westwood suit. Gucci loafers shined mirror bright. Small caliber French pistol. Holy hell.

"So glad you could finally make it!" Russell laughed and the detective fought not to shrink into himself at the eerily familiar giggle. "I was just telling Dr. Watson here about how my father left a small string of bastard children in Ireland. Only one of them ever contacted me."

Sherlock turned his eyes to the doctor, careful to keep his expression as neutral as possible. John stared back at him with a bored, resigned expression and even though the detective was not a religious man, he spared a single thought of 'God bless you' in his flatmate's direction. The doctor would not panic; he would wait for Sherlock to give him orders like any good soldier, or perhaps take matters into his own metaphorical hands (if given the opportunity).

"I'm assuming you are referring to the man known as 'Jim Moriarty'?" Though his face remained bored, Sherlock allowed his tone to drip with disdain.

"He always thought it was amazing you never put 2 and 2 together. He gave you some of the clues when he strapped your little pet here," Russell stroked the barrel of his pistol down the side of John's face, "into that bomb jacket and a few more during that whole debacle where he ousted you for the fraud you are."

The doctor jerked his face away while rolling his eyes, "Will you please just shoot me? Your stroking fetish is starting to make me want to vomit."

Allowing the tiniest of smirks to grace his face, Sherlock strolled slowly forward until he was facing the painting, not even wincing when Russell giggled again. At the sight of John on his knees in front of him, the detective had to nearly beat his mental self to death for flashing a very disturbing (but pleasant) picture across his mind. Now was not the time for things like that. He and his mental self were really going to have to have a good sit-down in the future if it was going to be torturing him like this.

Affirming with a glance that John was not hurt, the detective glanced back up at the painting his step-brother was stroking. "You know, you'll wear the paint off if you continue fondling her like that."

"Just can't help myself. I love a pair of pretty legs, and I adore beautiful women like my Ivory Queen here." Russell laughed again. Sherlock was starting to find it seriously disturbing. "They deserve to be worshipped like the goddesses they are."

Sherlock could have sworn he heard John snort, and glanced down to look at his friend. The doctor had his eyes closed but still looked bored, and a little disgusted. The detective chalked it up to the agony of being forced to listen to the exchange with nothing else to look at but a view of his tall friend's pelvis. Ok, inappropriate thoughts are inappropriate, pull yourself together, man!

"Not really my area, Russell." Sherlock tossed one of his 'my word you're an idiot' smirks in his step-brother's direction.

Oh hell, the man was laughing again. "Of course! What was I thinking trying to explain the beauty of a woman to a sissy poofter! Want me to start talking about your boyfriend's legs maybe? Hmm?" Russell kicked John in the foot.

The doctor craned his neck around and stated simply, "I'm not gay, you know."

Alright, the man really needed to stop giggling like that, it was becoming obnoxious now, "Poor ickle Sherlock! Even your bloody friend doesn't want you! Not man enough to satisfy woman or man then, eh? No wonder Jim called you the Virgin!"

John raised an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. He might have been imagining it, but was there a faint tinge of red on the detective's cheeks? No. Impossible. Wasn't it? Ok, this was really not the time for that. Start focusing on a way out of this, would you?

"Considering I wouldn't have even considered touching Jim with anything less than a harpoon at the end of a 50 foot rope, I don't really think he has any idea of my sexual expertise. What he called me is irrelevant. Especially since he's, you know, dead, remember?"

Russell wiggled his gun back and forth and said mockingly, "Silly boy. You can't kill an idea, remember?"

"I've already been exonerated." Sherlock frowned, one of his hands curling into a fist, "Also, his assassin squad is dead."

"But his criminal empire isn't. You really think that he accomplished everything just with a squad of assassins? Guess you're not as smart as everyone thinks."

"Can I go now?" John sighed in a bored, long suffering way.

The doctor nearly passed out when Russell unexpectedly pistol whipped him on the side of the head. Sherlock lurched forward to catch his friend but was stopped short by the pistol bore in his face. John hit the floor heavily on his bad shoulder and grunted in pain. This was really turning into a terrible day.

Russell propped John back up on his knees. The doctor shook his head trying to get the buzzing out of his ears and his vision to stop doubling up. Moriarty's step-brother (Sherlock was done thinking of the man as family) walked around until he was directly beside the detective, gun pointed steadily at Sherlock's stomach.

"Always thinking you're such a bloody genius and you missed everything of importance! Jim always said you were ordinary, just like any other man. The fact that you had no clue how long he's been working to destroy you proves it!" Russell moved the gun until it aimed directly between John's eyes.

Sherlock stared blankly at the sight, his genius mind incapable of comprehending the scene before it. "He's dead now, Russell. His empire will fall without him there to lead them."

"His empire is self-sustaining. Besides, he knew the only way to get you to kill yourself would be to take away all your options." Russell seemed to sadden a little as he spoke. "Poor mad bugger. He didn't tell anybody that part of his plan was to off himself. All we knew was that if you managed to survive your suicide we were supposed to take you out before your credibility was reinvestigated." Now he turned to John, "Didn't count on anybody still backing you up, so we've got to do things a bit backwards."

Now it was John's turn to smirk. Sherlock stared at his friend who seemed to be showing no fear of the pistol staring him in the face. Leave it to the soldier to face death like a hero, without fear or regret.

"Fortunately, we've got a couple of good backup blackmail plans courtesy of Jim's successor." Russell smiled wickedly. "Should take good care of your fragile reputation."

Sherlock could hear the soft tap of shoes crossing the floor behind him but he dared not look away from Russell or John. "I'm assuming this successor is someone I know?"

"Dear Mr. Holmes," the voice from behind him turned the detective's heart to stone, "I'm someone you adore."

The detective was too shocked to do anything other than glance at John, who was staring over his taller friend's shoulder with a bewildered look on his face. The look went from bewildered to angry and John grumbled, "Sherlock, when we get home you and me are going to have a serious t…"

Russell began to laugh again as he pulled the trigger of his gun.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me! Here's where I make it up to you!

Sherlock was completely numb, unable even to register the laughter around him at the horrified look plastered over his usually stoic face. All his ears could hear was the echoing blast of the pistol shot. All he could see was his beloved blogger slumped to the floor with scarlet pouring out the hole in his forehead. All his mind could register was Mycroft's words - 'shot in the head, can't come back from that'.

His lungs couldn't seem to suck in enough air, and his body had begun to tremble all over. This was not happening. This could not be happening. Any minute now, John would pop up and yell 'gotcha' and they would all have a huge laugh and everything would be fine. The word 'shock' flashed through his mind, and for a second all he wished for was an orange blanket.

A sharp-nailed hand gripped his elbow and Sherlock violently ripped his arm away and raised it to strike. He paused as the click of a disengaged safety registered in his mind, and his eyes gathered in the barrel of the handgun pointed in his face. Following the barrel up and over the arm that held it, Sherlock locked his ice-blue gaze with a pair of hard, hungry, brown eyes.

The Woman. What the hell was Irene Adler doing here in England when she was supposed to be safe and sound in South America dining on tropical fruits? Didn't she know that there were people out there looking for her? Perhaps next time Sherlock got the idea to save someone he thought was clever he'd leave well enough alone.

Like dominos falling, everything from the last few hours clicked into place and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from blurting out, "Russell shot Hannah to get the family out of the house and then came down here to truss up John because he knew I wouldn't leave the house without him as only John would be able to help us in the hospital by explaining the procedures to my family. They like him, everybody likes John, you can't help it, it's infuriating really. Russell mentioned that Moriarty had a successor, and here you are, you've worked for him before and I admired your cleverness and intelligence and I felt bad for you so I helped you escape from death when you could have been executed. Moriarty didn't plan on that happening, he must have been thrilled. Have you always been his successor or was it only recently when he realized he was going to have to kill himself to force me to kill myself?"

"Oh shut up, Mr. Holmes." Irene struck him hard across the face with her gun. "We've only got so much time before your big brother returns. You haven't been answering his texts, you see." She smiled predatorily, "Start walking."

She waved her gun in the direction of the door. The detective fidgeted for a second, his eyes darting from her gun barrel to his dead friend lying on the floor. He seemed to deflate momentarily before gathering himself back together and standing up to his full height. She smiled when he glared daggers at her.

"You are going to severely regret killing my blogger."

"Promises, promises." Irene shook her gun for emphasis. The tall man gave a final, sorrowed glance at his dead friend and started slowly walking towards the door while she pressed her weapon into his back. Over her shoulder she called back, "Russell, be a dear and make sure that mess is cleaned up before the Ice Man arrives?"

It was hard to bide his time. First of all, the pain in his head was intense, which made the wait that much more intolerable. Second, now he knew he had even less time to deal with everything. Every second counted. Then again, he couldn't do anything while everyone was watching. If he didn't get going soon rigor mortis would set in, and it would be nearly impossible to move as fast as he needed to if he wanted this finished before the 'Ice Man' arrived. It was bad enough he had to reveal his secret to Sherlock. The very last person on earth who needed to know it was Mycroft.

Waiting was hard, but he used the time to plan ahead, forcing the pain to the back of his mind. The pistol would need to be left here, as it would only create more problems later on. Though he was confident in his skill with a firearm, that didn't mean he wanted to go on a shooting spree. If he hit a bystander by accident, he'd never forgive himself. A blade would be better. Easier to conceal and completely silent.

The glint of a light on a sharp metal edge caught his attention and he felt something cut through the makeshift bonds on his wrists. Talk about taking care of two birds with one stone. Now all he had to do was wait until the enemy turned his back.

Russell Fitzwalter had no idea what hit him when he turned to admire the painting after severing the bonds around the late doctor's wrists. He had wanted to tell his Queen how proud she should be of him, and how much he honored her by letting her see the death of his enemy. Something solid and heavy had rammed into the back of his skull without a sound. There was nothing in his head now except a blissful shade of black.

Irene led Sherlock back to the foyer of the house, smacking him harshly with a riding crop she'd pulled from who-the-hell-knew where whenever the detective opened his mouth. Holding the gun to his head, she pulled open his shirt and used it to tie his hands behind him. Licking her lips at the sight of his nearly perfect, pale skin, she traced the curve of his throat with the crop before backhanding him with the gun.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, how I've dreamed of having you at my mercy." The Woman shoved a chair between his legs and then walked around to press his chest against the backrest by shoving her foot into his spine. "Dreamed of marking this beautiful skin. Of making you beg."

Sherlock refused to make a sound, even as the crop bit into his flesh. Whatever she had in store didn't matter now, all that mattered was figuring out how to get the upper hand. He would have his vengeance for hurting his sweet sister and killing his only friend; he would destroy Irene Adler and Russell Fitzwalter and their criminal web if it was the last thing he did. Hell, for Hannah alone he would have chopped them into tiny pieces and thrown them into the Thames. For John's death, no John's  _murder_ , he would carve their insides out with a rusty spoon, set them on fire, and then experiment with their corpses until he could bring them back to life and do it all again.

She groaned lustily when a particularly hard strike laid his shoulder open and blood began to dribble down his back. Grabbing his hair, she pulled his head back and licked the shell of his ear, "Oh, Sherlock, you do know how to make a girl work up a sweat. Come on, dear, I want to hear you moan."

The detective clenched his teeth, refusing to give her any satisfaction. Firing off a round into the ceiling, she pressed the hot muzzle into his chest. Hissing involuntarily as the metal scorched him, Sherlock tried to slam his head into hers. Her grip was too strong so all he succeeded in doing was getting his hair pulled hard.

"Yes, fight back. It'll make it so much sweeter when I break you." Once more she fired the gun, holding it near his ear, deafening him for a moment. The skin of his back hissed loudly and he managed to turn what would have been a moan of pain into an angry grunt. "Come along, Mr. Holmes, you can do much better than that."

Irene began to slash her riding crop over and over against his other shoulder until she laid it open to the bone. Each subsequent strike sent waves of pain up and down his spine, the sensation dampening his thinking process. He needed to distract her somehow, make her stop causing more damage before the pain overtook him completely.

"It's almost disgusting how much pleasure you get from this." He grunted between every second word as the crop bit down or the hot muzzle scorched him. "I don't know how the hell you held on to such a vast clientele." Suddenly she struck him hard across the buttocks and he yelped and jerked forward.

The Woman came back around in front of him and lightly stroked his throat with her crop, "Jealous, dear? Unlike you, all the people I service come crawling back for more. They praise me, worship me, even though I degrade them." She tilted his head up with the gun barrel, "Almost reminds me of the way your little pet doctor always came running when his master called," her smirk was pure evil, "except of course you never gave him anything in return. At least my pets," the riding crop traced a line down his chest to his groin, "got some pleasure for their pain."

If his eyes had been arrows, she'd have been dead that instant. "You are not allowed to speak about John."

Chuckling softly, Irene struck him across the face, "I'll talk about your little lap dog all I want. Poor soul practically imprinted on you like a baby goose, following you around everywhere. If only you were capable of being selfless, you might have sent him away and saved his life." Another three rounds were fired into the air and she pressed the hot metal to his throat.

Sherlock couldn't help shouting in pain as the hot barrel pressed against his jugular. Irene licked up the side of his neck and gripped his hair hard. Rage was burning in his stomach, but it was slightly tempered by a rising sensation of guilt. Could she be right about him? Had he inadvertently caused his friend's death simply by being his own sociopath self? John, who never asked him to change, just to try and understand. Loyal and self-sacrificing John, who always came running whenever Sherlock called. John, the only man in the world who would kill or die for the world's only consulting detective.

"My dear Mr. Holmes, your selfish disregard for the well-being of the people who care about you, has finally come to a head. I can't wait until Russell relates the circumstances of the deaths of your sister and friend to your parents." Irene sauntered to the door of the foyer and threw it open, showing an unimpeded view of the road leading up to the house. "Your sister will never survive that shot, you know. And then, before they have the chance to recover, Russell will save the best for last."

It was a very clear night, and far in the distance Sherlock could see the intermittent flares of headlights flashing over the slowly rolling hills of the country roadway. Mycroft was obviously returning, just as Irene had predicted. "You see, Sherlock," she gleefully fired off another 3 rounds and pressed the burning muzzle to his temple, "without your big brother's interference, our organization will thrive and spread like a virus. You are nothing but a tiny little fly in the ointment, and without the Ice Man to back you up and get you out of trouble, you'll be even less than that. Not to mention, without your pet to dote on you like a mother hen you'll probably starve to death anyway."

Sherlock cringed a little as she reminded him of the last conversation he'd had with John. Stupid sentiment. Alright, no it wasn't stupid but it was distracting. He was going to have to figure out an escape and vengeance plan for this, and he could not afford to let his own personal anguish overshadow his deductive reasoning. It took him a moment to realize that she'd planned more than just the death of his best friend and sister; she was going to kill Mycroft too.

The pain of his wounds was also starting to settle into his bones, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. Images exploded through his mind's eye like rapid fireworks - Mycroft carrying him home from university when he was higher than a kite, John stealing a piece of his Cashew Chicken, his dear sister holding him while he shivered in withdrawal from cocaine, then John again, pressing a cool compress to his forehead while a fever ravaged his body. This was not doing him any good, he was going to have to focus if he wanted to find the loophole or something to the final part of her plan.

With a soft thud the riding crop dropped to the floor and Irene dangled a small box with two buttons on it in his face. Even with his genius dampened to half-capacity by pain, he recognized a detonator when he saw one. Obviously her plan was to blow Mycroft's car to kingdom come while he watched. An explosive end for a cold man; how very Irene.

-MEANWHILE-

Blank slate eyes watched as Russell slowly returned to consciousness. Cold lips quirked up in a wicked smirk as the man realized he was hanging from his wrists in front of his favorite portrait. When he looked down at the bench, saw the flat grey eyes staring at him, he opened his mouth as if to scream but no sound came.

At least the footsteps in the corridor had fallen silent before the man woke up, otherwise things might have gotten very awkward very quickly. The Woman probably would have heard him cursing as he hoisted the unconscious body up. He hadn't realized that Russell was so heavy. Must have been all those years of Rugby. Not to mention, Irene would probably have immediately put an end to the rite even before he started.

This was one of those things that, no matter how many times he did it, still bothered John about serving his Mistress. It was one thing to help a soul pass on to the next world, but it was entirely different to take a life out of vengeance and in Her name. He refused to get used to it, in fact, because it went so against the grain for a healer to take life instead of save it.

While he waited for the right moment to continue the ritual, he tossed the knife from hand to hand. If he didn't wait long enough, that Adler woman would hear Russell screaming and she might shoot Sherlock out of hand, and that would be very much not good. John was angry enough as it was, if he lost Sherlock there wouldn't be a power on Earth that would stop him from destroying everything he could get his hands on.

He waited an extra five minutes after the footsteps were gone completely, just to be sure. A feeling of intense impatience pressed on him from the direction of the hanging body and John frowned slowly in that direction. Alright then, time to get down to the dirty work. Stiffly he dragged his body upwards and stalked to where Russell hung, back against the portrait of the Ivory Queen.

Staring upwards, slate eyes unblinking, John opened his mouth and intoned in a dangerous voice that sounded as if it was coming from a far distance, "I am a servant of the End of All Things. I shall serve Her faithfully until the next time I am asked to make the Choice. As my soul belongs to Her, so my body fulfills Her bidding." Placing the knife in his teeth he gripped the sides of Russell's shirt and tore it as if it were made of tissue.

Russell was making frightened whimpering noises, and with good reason, as John really should have been lying dead on the floor. No matter what way you sliced it, a dead body should not have been walking and talking, and it definitely shouldn't have begun carving into Russell's flesh with a knife. The man began to scream as pain burned across his chest.

"In Her benevolence to the race of Man, She has deemed you unworthy of continuing in this plane." With surgical precision, John cut Her symbol into the chest before him and stepped back to admire his work. "In Her name, as your soul is stained by your actions, so shall your blood stain my hands."

The doctor paused for a moment and Russell struggled, still screaming, and now also crying. Blood dripped from the symbol down his abdomen to the floor, and he struggled harder as his insides roiled. There was something even more wrong going on than the dead man walking towards him with knife raised to strike.

"Russell Fitzwalter, though I regret taking your life, I do it without mercy or fear of repercussion." John sank the knife into Russell's heart and twisted it firmly. "Your End has come." The screaming turned into loud gurgling as blood poured from Russell's mouth. "Through marked flesh I deliver your marred soul unto Her hands. I send you onward to the World Beside, where She shall channel you to Her dungeons in the Abyss Beneath the Universe. Never again shall your poison infect the flesh of Man."

Russell breathed his last breath and his stomach bowed outwards, like something was trying to push through him. John waited until the skin was taut before ripping the knife back out and slashing through the stretched flesh. It parted like a sliced rubber band and bone-white talon-hands reached out as Russell's intestines unraveled messily towards the floor.

Without hesitation, John dropped the knife and allowed the claw-like nails to dig into the flesh of his arm. Pain was a distant memory for him now, so he ignored it when the claws dug furrows in his flesh as he pulled and twisted to drag their owner into the room. It was like playing tug of war against a wet vacuum on full suction.

Pausing at the bench, John felt the tension of his pull slacken and heard the thump of something hitting the floor. Glancing back as the hands released him, he kneeled on the floor and waited as the awkward jumble of white limbs and scarlet cloth jerked and unfolded itself into a more recognizable form. The body gathered its limbs together and gracefully rose to full stature.

At eight feet in height, the woman looked exactly like the Ivory Queen, except Her dress was now scarlet from hem to waistline, and starting to turn pink over Her thin stomach. Her smile was both feral and kind as She stretched out a hand to tousle John's blood-stained hair. A low, echoing laugh disturbed the air while She took a moment to glance at Her surroundings.

"You know," the voice wrapped around John's consciousness like a warm blanket, "I think I rather like this room. It's quite spacious. I should think about redecorating my sculpture garden like this."

It took a moment for John to get his lips to smile, "If I could ask a favor before we begin?"

"If you insist."

The smile disappeared from John's face, "Please don't let Hannah die. There are so few people who care for him, and who's feelings he reciprocates."

Towering over him, She cradled his face in one of Her palms, "As you serve me, so I serve you. She will not pass into my realm today. I suppose you might wish me to protect that brother of his as well?"

After a moment John managed to make his face muscles to grimace, "I suppose. I mean, he does care. I think."

"Very well," she sounded resigned, "in that case there is something I must attend to." Releasing his face She turned and glided to the exit and out into the open air. "Make your way back to the foyer, Jonathan. You can't save him lying about like a lump."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Oh, and do try not to rip her limbs off until I call you, please?"

Slowly John lurched into a standing position, fighting against the rigor of death that had begun to harden his muscles. It was entirely possible he had waited just a tad too long to act against Russell, but instead of dwelling in the land of hindsight, John bent his soul to work. He put all his strength and will into forcing his leg muscles up to jogging speed. Following the scent of Irene Adler's perfume, all the way to the parlor in which he'd met Sherlock's family for the first time, he paused at the chamber door into the entrance hall.

Leaning his forehead against the wooden portal, his ears picked up what sounded like a whip hitting flesh. A faint aroma of blood assaulted his nose and he could barely suppress a bestial snarl at the thought of that bitch injuring his Sherlock. Carefully, ever so carefully, he eased the door open a crack, just enough to see what was going on in the foyer. If he made a mistake now, revealed himself too soon, then she would probably kill his consulting detective right there, and there was no bloody way in heaven, hell, or in-between he was going to let that happen.

Even from a distance he could see scarlet staining Sherlock's pale skin. Rage pooled in his gut as he watched her strike again and again, then press the hot muzzle of her pistol into pale flesh. Tightening his jaw to keep from growling, John settled in to bide his time. The White Lady had told him to wait, and though She'd posed it as a question, he knew it was a command, and he would obey without complaint. John had done a lot of things in his life, but this was the hardest by far - sitting idle while listening to Sherlock hissing and groaning in pain.

Gritting his teeth and forcing his lips to pull back in a silent snarl John waited, impatiently, to be unleashed.


	14. Chapter 13

Mycroft tapped his mobile impatiently against his leg as the car rumbled over the low, rolling hills of his family's estate. His driver, he knew, was pressing the engine to the limit, but it did not make him any less angry at the slowness of the journey. Something was definitely wrong at the mansion, and he was half-sure it had something to do with Sherlock, and possibly Russell. If there was one thing Mycroft Holmes despised it was not knowing something with absolute certainty.

The town car suddenly lurched to a halt, and the eldest Holmes nearly introduced his head to the bulletproof partition between the front and rear seats. His already shortened fuse blew and he pressed the button to retract the glass. Bright, blinding light flooded the car and a feeling of intense fury burned in his gut.

"Are you alright, Sir?" the driver asked, panting heavily.

"Yes," Mycroft's voice was clipped and harsh, "no thanks to our mystery motorist! Find out who the hell is in our way!"

Before the driver could open his door, a tall, slim figure passed into the brilliant glare of the headlights. Whoever it was walked forward and leaned against the front of the black town car, the vehicle barely registering the weight. There was an almighty hiss as the front end suddenly sank down, and Mycroft could swear he saw smoke coming from beneath the hands splayed out on the bonnet. The tall figure dropped down and both Mycroft and his driver could hear something scrambling at the metal undercarriage beneath them.

It stood again gracefully, and Mycroft noticed one hand held a large rectangular object with wires sticking out of it, and a tiny red light blinking at regular intervals. A bomb? Most psychopaths planted bombs, not removed them. Why would a mad bomber remove such a cleverly hidden device? Mycroft would never have known it was there until he was blasted into tiny smithereens all over the countryside.

The stranger returned to his or her (it was hard to tell really, the person was so unnaturally thin, and the light was so very bright) own vehicle with the device. Mycroft was out of his own car at the same time his driver leapt out, and both men stared as the exact copy of their car burned rubber while speeding back off down the road towards the mansion. Turning to his driver, still not sure what had just happened, Mycroft walked over to the man and stared with him at the car.

Both front tires were fully deflated, and the metal of the bonnet was charred with two handprints the likes of which sent hideous shivers down Mycroft's spine. The metal was still smoking slightly, and when he held a hand over it, the elder Holmes could still feel heat drifting up. Looking his driver in the eye, Mycroft began to tell his employee to pull out the damned spare when the night flared brightly as down the road the mystery car disappeared in a fireball.

As the pillar of flame reached up into the night sky, Sherlock felt the smallest prick of fear and doubt creep into his gut. Sadness pricked the inner corners of his eyes as he realized he would never have to yell at Mycroft for meddling in his life ever again. Just thinking about it made him remember poor John lying dead in the gallery, and Russell's filthy hands tossing the doctor out like trash.

After all of this was finished, and Irene and Russell were tortured to death, he was going to find a piece of paper and tell his parents everything. Then he was going to take John's gun, walk to the gallery, and put a bullet in his own brilliant brain. Yes, that was a good back-up plan. Unfortunately, what he really needed was an escape plan. This depression was really not him, and really not helping. Save the emotional outbursts for later, genius, because you can't escape if you don't focus.

"The Ice Man die-eth," Irene giggled (Lord, did she have to do that?) and gestured grandly at the still smoldering wreckage just outside the gates. "And now here you are, all alone."

With a powerful effort, The Woman dragged Sherlock around in his chair until he was backlit by the flames framed in the doorway. Placing the detonator on the foyer table, she gracefully picked her riding crop back up off the floor and, in one swift movement, lashed it across her captive's face. Her grin was savagely smug, and she struck him twice more across the face, once with the crop and once with the gun.

"Dear Mr. Holmes, it's been fabulous but I believe the time for our interlude is nearly up." Irene beamed over her captive's bleeding shoulders, still thrilled at the smoking car and the death of Mycroft Holmes.

Gripping Sherlock's hair in the hand holding her crop, The Woman pressed a passionate kiss to his pursed lips. Even though it made his neck, scalp, and shoulders scream, the detective wrenched his face away, spitting out the taste of her. Irene struck him again with the gun, shrieking in fury, and the blow made his vision reel.

Obviously, she'd gone completely mad; she just kept shrieking and pistol-whipping him until he crashed heavily to the floor, his vision doubling and tripling at a rapid pace. With any luck (which he was fairly certain he was mostly used up at this point), he wouldn't have a concussion to deal with on top of the emotional and physical pain that was literally destroying his genius mind. The riding crop began slicing down over and over again on his already lacerated back as she began to laugh hideously.

Gasping and fighting not to yelp in pain, Sherlock began to try to process a way out of this mess. Irene apparently wasn't thinking clearly any more, too wrapped up in her own insane cleverness to pay much attention to what he was doing. That gave him an edge he hadn't really expected, because if she wasn't thinking straight then he could definitely outmaneuver her, even with his mind fogged by tremendous physical and emotional pain. With a tenuous plan ready to be implemented, Sherlock waited for the next moment she raised her crop to strike.

Before he could put his plan into effect, the door into the parlor launched open with so much force the top hinge broke. Irene paused in mid-slash then turned her head so fast Sherlock heard her spine pop. Something blurry and snarling viciously seethed in the dark doorway. Sherlock shook his head trying to get his vision to clear.

"Impossible!" Irene's voice was squeaky with fright as she lifted her gun and fired.

For the second time that night, Sherlock watched a crimson stain blossom in someone's shirt. However, since his eyes refused to believe what they were looking at, the detective could do nothing but stare. The loud snarl cut off as whatever it was looked down at the small stain and then looked back up again. Instead of snarling, the person (yes, that was definitely the outline of a person) began letting out a twisted, huffing laugh that sounded a lot like the mirthless panting of a hungry wolf. The being moved into the light of the foyer, even as Irene fired off three more rounds into his (His? Yes. His.) thorax, and Sherlock felt his insides turn to water.

John Watson was supposed to be deceased, the hole in his head sluggishly dripping crimson down his tanned face, and yet here he was lurching towards The Woman, even as she pumped more bullets into his torso. He only stopped when he was right in front of her, the muzzle of her gun pressed lightly against his chest. Hollow clicks filled the air as Irene continued to press the trigger, even though it was clear she was out of ammo.

Silent as the grave, John slowly reached up and wrapped his hand around Irene's wrist. Sherlock stared at the place where the muzzle rested, directly in front of where the doctor's physical heart was encased. The gun wasn't moving at all, as Sherlock would have expected considering his friend was moving around just like any other living person. It was a commonly accepted fact that if something were living and moving then it made sense that being should also be breathing. John's chest neither rose nor fell as his other hand jerked up to wrap around Irene's throat.

The Woman let out an awkward squawk of surprise as John lifted her effortlessly into the air by the neck. Eyes flashing like a hunting tiger's, the doctor's face warped from its stone-like calm into a terrible grimace of murderous fury. He shook her hand so hard her wrist snapped loudly and she made a strangled noise of pain in the back of her throat. Her gun clattered to the floor right next to Sherlock's stomach, and the detective struggled to get his torn body up into a seated position.

"Well, that looks uncomfortable." The voice from behind Sherlock was so lovely it hurt. He twisted his neck as far around as he could without further damaging his sliced up shoulders. It was a long way up to look.

From a height he could only describe as gigantic, a pale, dark-haired woman of alien proportion towered over his prone body. Deep, dark eyes stared down curiously at the detective, the smallest of smirks gracing her full, blood red lips. Her gaunt face tilted gracefully to the side as she studied him for a long moment before glancing up again at John, who was still dangling Irene nearly a foot off the ground.

"I thought I told you not to go after her until I gave word?" As inhuman as her looks, her voice was as smooth and supple as a well-worked piece of leather. The words dripped off her tongue like precious jewels. "This seems exactly the opposite of what I said."

"Technically, you told me not to rip her limbs off." Despite the fact that John nearly always sounded in-control, even in his angriest moments, the voice that came out of the doctor's mouth was decidedly not so. In fact, it was so far from 'in-control' that Sherlock was tempted to describe his friend's tone as 'bestial'. There was an undercurrent of a snarl that laced in and out of the words as he spoke. "This," John shook Irene back and forth like a cat throttling a particularly annoying mouse, "is nothing like ripping off limbs."

"Jonathan," a hint of admonishment colored the stranger's lilting speech, "put that down before you catch some terrible sexual disease from it."

The doctor's hand released Irene as if she was a prize won in a crane game, dropping her unceremoniously to the floor. Gasping and coughing, The Woman shook and trembled as she tried to regain control of her oxygen-starved mind. Moving stiffly, John stalked very slowly around behind Sherlock, and tugged jerkily at the shirt knotted around the detective's forearms. With the fluidity of movement one might expect from a dancer, the other woman stepped carefully over Sherlock's legs until she was standing in front of Irene.

It felt like John was having trouble working his fingers and Sherlock craned his head back again to stare up into the flat eyes of his friend. There was no life inside those familiar orbs. Except for a flickering something deep within their pupils, Sherlock couldn't even detect the usual steadiness and empathy always present in those eyes. What in the hell was going on here? Even John's normally warm hands were chilled, as if he'd been sitting in a freezer for an hour. The doctor's face was completely unmoving, the grimace of anger already smoothed out. John was always expressive, and seeing him so marble-like sent icy shivers down the detective's spine.

"Should have brought the knife with you."

John paused briefly, and then his head jerked upwards until he was looking into the stranger's eyes. It was another few seconds until he said, "Yes. Thanks for that, Mistress Obvious."

"Snarky is not a color that becomes you, little one." The stranger lifted a hand and lazily flicked her fingers to the right. John's whole body lurched sideways as if he'd been backhanded. "I know you're infuriated but that's no reason to be disrespectful."

Blood began trickling from the side of the doctor's mouth as he righted himself. He paused for a long moment and then said, "I'm sorry."

Waving a hand dismissively the strange woman kicked the handgun away from where Irene, who'd now recovered, was trying to grasp it. She shook a finger in The Woman's face, "Naughty girls don't get to play with projectile weapons."

With his mouth twitching into a smirk, John managed to successfully release Sherlock's arms from their bonds. The detective practically threw himself backwards, away from the three other people in the room, and from his fighter's crouch, he let his brain assess the situation. First, there was John, who should have been dead, still kneeling as if frozen in place, beside the chair. Second, there was the stranger who, now that he could see her in full, was twice as odd as he had originally thought. Third, there was The Woman, who was looking back and forth in frightened confusion between John and the stranger.

As was only fitting, John first - A) Not breathing, cold skin, flat eyes, one hole in the middle of his forehead (fatal) and several more in his torso [Conclusion 1: Dead… possibly drug induced]. B) Having trouble with motor control; out-of-the-ordinary strength; stiff and/or jerky movements, delayed speech, and delayed facial expressions [Conclusion 2: drug induced or brain injury or possible zombification (scratch that - see drug induced)]. C) Speech sounds include animalistic growling, atypical baritone timbre, and echo as if from a distance [Conclusion 3: Drug induced? Possible problem with personal hearing (you did take a couple of pretty hard hits to the head, Sherlock)]. Comprehensive conclusion: Common denominator indicates friend's personal/physical state is drug induced. But there was still that 'not-breathing-fatal-hole-in-the-head' problem. Further study needed.

Now for the stranger - A) Emaciated body, approximately 8-foot in height, fully proportioned hourglass figure with slightly elongated limbs, white (not Caucasian) skin, wide and staring eyes, graceful/fluid movements, possible telekinetic abilities? (She did slap John without touching him) [Conclusion 1: Physical mutations possibly including giganticism and albinism]. B) Commanding presence; perfect English speech with strange foreign accent; expects respect [Conclusion 2: From a high social class, well-educated, possibly from a foreign country]. C) John obeys her orders; sarcasm is tolerated within reason (How the hell did she slap him without touching him?); calls John by his full first name instead of a nickname [Conclusion 3: Has either an officer/soldier or master (scratch that - mistress)/servant relationship with John; relationship is long-standing]. Comprehensive conclusion: Further study still needed but John obviously respects her so she can't be too terrible.

Finally Irene - A) Blanched skin tone, trembling limbs, sweating, not speaking [Conclusion 1: Frightened]. B) John being here (not dead) and the stranger elicit clear physical 'fight or flight' reactions; trying to arm herself [Conclusion 2: Frightened of the unexplained presence of John and the stranger]. C) Has not mentioned Russell's absence [Conclusion 3: Russell isn't important (John took care of him?)]. Comprehensive conclusion: a) John and the stranger were not part of her plan; b) The Woman was no longer a threat.

All this ran through Sherlock's mind in seconds, his brain working at full tilt again without his body being subjected to continuous pain. Though he was elated at John's being alive, if under the influence of some unknown kind of drug, something about the way the stranger spoke to the doctor made him apprehensive. Slowly Sherlock managed to gather himself back into a standing position, hissing involuntarily as the sliced flesh of his back protested the movement.

The stranger was looking at him studiously, the same way he looked at a particularly interesting experiment. When he finally stood tall again she said, "Jonathan, you should probably take a look at those lacerations. Poor thing is going to need a fair bit of stitching."

John lurched forward and up until he was standing again, his motions so disjointed Sherlock took another moment to observe his friend. Each movement of John's body reminded him of a marionette whose puppeteer insisted on jerking the strings too harshly. Something about the way his friend was blankly staring straight ahead, coupled with the almost twitchy way he walked, unnerved the detective to no end.

"Don't take too long, Jonathan. There's still work to be done." The stranger leaned down and casually wrapped a delicate, long-fingered hand around Irene's ankle. The Woman was suddenly yanked onto her back, without any visible effort on the stranger's part, and being dragged towards the door into the parlor. "I doubt his brother will wait very much longer before he gets his car rolling again."

As she dragged The Woman through the broken doorway, Irene tried to dig her nails into the parquet floor, shouting to be released. Sherlock stared after them as his mind tried to wrap around the strength of the strange woman. A cold hand pressed against his bare arm and the detective jerked away, eyes turning to his friend as the doctor froze in place again, hand still extended in the air.

Reaching out suddenly, Sherlock grabbed the doctor's cold wrist in one hand and thrust the other against John's jugular vein. He felt nothing beneath his fingertips and unable to process the input, his brain ordered his hand to close around John's throat with bruising force. Any living person would have been choking, gasping for air. John did not react at all. Impossible.

With such confusing data, Sherlock's mind flatly refused to work. Scientifically all the signs pointed to John being dead - no pulse, no pulmonary function. Visually, the man before him walked and talked like any living being (well, sort of). It was almost like being back in Dartmoor again, knowing that what he saw couldn't be a monster even though it looked like one. He'd never put the word 'monster' anywhere near John before, but, seriously, what in the bloody hell was going on?

"One of us is under the influence of drugs," Sherlock began flatly, "and I'm fairly certain that it isn't you. I plan to experiment on every piece of material in your medical bag when we get home."

John was completely still for a long moment, even after Sherlock released his neck and wrist. The doctor's arm dropped back to his side as if the muscles had been severed, and one side of his mouth twitched upwards in a relatively familiar smirk. "You and I both know that I would never drug you." His voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away.

"You trick me into eating, I'm fairly sure you've put sedatives in my tea before."

Smoothing out, John's face remained motionless for a few moments before twisting into a pained expression, "I've never drugged any drink of yours, Sherlock. Why would you think I have?"

"Because I am obviously under the influence of a hallucinogen. How else would you explain the fact that to me it looks like you keep twitching? Or the fact that I can't feel your pulse."

"You can't feel my pulse because there's nothing to feel." John's voice was even softer than before, and tinged with a hint of sadness, however his tone was very matter-of-fact. "Now will you turn around so I can see your back?"

Out of habit, Sherlock turned around, but when a cold hand wrapped around his bicep he nearly leaped away again. John's grip was vice-like though, and all Sherlock succeeded in doing was making an undignified sound and wrenching his already previously bruised shoulder. At the sound that tore itself from the detective's lungs, John's grip immediately released.

"When did you get that?" Light as a feather, the doctor's hand ghosted over the barely visible purplish line on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sliding away, the detective reached up to massage the sore muscle and hissed, "It's none of your business."

"Did Irene do that to you?" Pure venom laced through John's voice, and the primal, growling undertone rumbled beneath the words.

To cover the fact that John's malice had taken him aback, Sherlock snapped, "Of course not. It's a previous injury and its origin is irrelevant right now. Please stop all this," the detective made a vague waving gesture in the air, "prevarication and carry on with an explanation."

"What?"

"Honestly, John, must I continually repeat myself? An explanation! How else was I drugged? Was it the tea this morning?" Sherlock grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and shook him. "I know, it was in the jam, wasn't it? Or the rabies vaccine?"

For a very long moment John was quiet, then suddenly he growled, "You aren't bloody drugged you idiot!" The doctor put a hand up and pressed against Sherlock's sternum, and using that dangerous octave, commanded, "Stop shaking me!"

Pausing, (mostly because his back hurt like the Dickens, or at least that's what he told himself) Sherlock released his friend only to wrap both of his hands around the doctor's throat and squeeze. It had to be a trick, a drug-induced hallucination, something, anything other than what the evidence was pointing at. John rolled his eyes as his face fell in exasperation. Sherlock could feel his own lungs expanding and contracting at an accelerated rate as he tried desperately to crush the windpipe in his hands.

After five minutes without any other reaction, John made an annoyed noise and rumbled, "Are you finished experimenting yet?"

The detective released the doctor's throat, his eyes wide as his own actions. Had he really just attempted to strangle his friend only to prove a point? Sherlock jabbed a finger into John's chest, and spoke in a nearly soprano voice, "You should be dead. Why are you not dead? You're not breathing, but you're talking, and you've got no pulse but you're walking around and it-t doesn't make any b-bloody sense, so either you t-t-tell me what the f-fuck is going on or, or," Sherlock swallowed convulsively, trying to control himself and end the childish stutter that had suddenly reared its ugly head.

John actually managed to look both surprised and concerned at the same time, "Sherlock, please do me a favor and take few deep breaths before you pass out?"

"I am fine," Sherlock barked, "but you, you should be dead!"

"I am dead."

Time seemed to stand completely still for a very long moment until Sherlock shouted, "What the fuck is going on, John?"

The doctor made another exasperated noise, "If you'd give me a minute to explain instead of getting all worked up," the detective cut him off with a slash of his arm.

"I am not worked up! Explain! Now!"

"Alright!" John's voice rumbled dangerously and he jerked his head in the direction of the parlor door, "Can we do this while walking please? I do have something I need to do, and if you aren't going to let me take a look at your back then we need to get going."

"Why? Is your freakish new girlfriend going to make you sleep on the couch tonight if you don't attend to her?" Sherlock hadn't actually meant to sound so cruel, but he was having a little trouble controlling his emotions. With most of his brain power devoted to trying to solve this particularly confusing conundrum, he wasn't able to keep his usual walls fortified.

"Sherlock," John's voice was ominous and sent the slightest shiver of fear down the detective's spine, "it's nothing like that. She isn't what you think. I'd appreciate if we got going, though, because She will not hesitate to make things very unpleasant if I don't hop to it soon."

As John began to walk towards the parlor door, Sherlock tried to block his passage. All he succeeded in doing was getting into the most intense stare-down he'd ever been in before, and Sherlock had gotten into one with Moriarty. The detective tried to use everything about himself to win the contest, pushing himself into John's personal space to tower over his shorter flatmate, scowling as darkly as he could. John's only reaction was to pause mid-step and angle his head upwards, flat, grey eyes boring up into Sherlock's blue gaze.

It was the detective's first good look into his friend's eyes. Deep in the pupils of his flatmate's slate orbs a very detailed symbol glowed like the dying embers of a fire. As small as a name written on a grain of rice, the motif seemed both 2- and 3-dimensional at the same time, and reminded him of the sort of symbol one might expect in a movie about satanic cults. Sherlock wondered what it could be on, considering that from what he knew of the structure of the human eye, the pupil was nothing more than a hole.

While the detective stared and studied, the symbol flashed to white-hot brilliance and John gripped his head. The doctor dropped to the floor like a stone, writhing and hissing in pain, clutching at his skull. Sherlock could only stare as his flatmate groaned loudly and slid along the floor for a few feet as if someone was dragging him.

"Alright! Alright!" John's voice sounded much more human, and slightly frightened. "I'm coming! No need to get impatient!" His head bumped harshly into the unbroken parlor door and his whole body relaxed as the pain disappeared as suddenly as it had erupted. The doctor managed to lurch stiffly to his feet again, making a strained grunting noise.

Tentatively, Sherlock laid a hand against John's shoulder when the doctor finally managed to regain his feet. "What happened?" The detective's voice was quiet, but confused, and if John hadn't known the man so well he'd never have caught the faint note of fear beneath it.

John's face twitched into a familiar smirk, the distance back in his speech, "She's testy about us making her wait. Can we please stop arguing and just get all this over with?"

Sherlock's face was completely blank as he nodded and motioned for the doctor to take the lead.


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time I said I was sorry? I'm over it. You might want some tissues for this one.

John thought it would be a full 3 minutes before Sherlock started bombarding him with questions. Once again, the detective surprised him. After exactly 1 minute and 33 seconds, the detective began to walk backwards in front of his flatmate and demanded the explanation he still hadn't received. The doctor just barely managed to refrain from sighing loudly.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? I can almost guarantee you won't believe what I say."

"How do you know that, John? Are you suddenly psychic as well?" If the sarcasm in that reply had been any more solid, it probably would have punched John in the gut.

This time he couldn't hold back the tired sigh, "No, because I know you. You're a scientific being, fueled by logic, and whatever the hell makes me like this," disgust colored his tone as he stiffly indicated himself, "isn't anywhere near logical or scientific."

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of their feet trudging down the corridor. It wasn't the normal kind of quiet that fell between them. Tense and thick, it pressed on them, making it hard for Sherlock to breath and even harder for John to think. The whole exchange was not going well in either man's opinion.

To the doctor's surprise, it was Sherlock who broke the silence. "While I may be a student of logic, John, it does not follow that I do not keep an open mind. Perhaps if you tried to explain in the least superstitious of terms, I might be persuaded to believe you."

"If I knew how to do that, don't you think I'd have done it already?"

"There are times, John, when I wonder just how intelligent you really are."

A loud, primal grumble slipped past the doctor's lips and his face flashed an angry expression for a short moment. Such a sound coming from a man as gentle Dr. John Watson sent a bolt of fear down Sherlock's spine and goose bumps cascading over the detective's skin. He wondered cautiously how the human throat could even make such sounds.

As they rounded a corner, Sherlock turned around again and matched his stride to that of his flatmate, keeping as close to the shorter man as possible. How was John finding his way back to the gallery? Sherlock was good with directions, but he knew from practice (and experimentation, of course) that it took John at least 4-5 consecutive trips back and forth from a destination to memorize the route. The man had been to the gallery only twice, and yet he never hesitated to turn a corner or open a doorway.

Deciding that changing the subject would perhaps benefit them both, Sherlock asked, "How do you know the way to the gallery?"

John paused briefly at a corner, twitching to give the detective a sidelong glance and release a short hum of consideration. "I'm not sure, actually. I think I'm just going by feel."

They passed through another doorway and Sherlock recognized that John was taking them in the most direct route, making a b-line for the art wing by cutting through any rooms in his way. "You're walking straight towards it. Or as near straight as you can manage. Are you just going by general direction? What do you mean 'feel'?"

"No." John was silent for a moment, then hummed in consideration again. The sound changed to one of discontent. "I suppose I'm using Her as a lodestone. I can feel where She is, so I just keep moving towards Her."

Judging by the capitals he could hear in John's speech, Sherlock knew the older man wasn't talking about Irene. He'd never heard John speak about anyone with such blatant reverence before. Actually, that wasn't completely true, but he'd attributed the tone to his own imagination. At any rate, John must have thought very highly of 'Her' to use the same tone of voice the doctor often used when speaking about Sherlock.

"How poetic of you." Oh, that sounded a bit jealous, didn't it? "You're quite enamored with her, I suppose?"

Another exasperated sigh from John, "It's not like that, seriously."

"Then perhaps you can relate to me what, exactly, 'it's' like. Or better yet, you can tell me who 'She' is."

"I'm not entirely sure you can quantify Her as a 'who'." John's tone had gone from exasperated to contemplative. The closer they got to the gallery, the less distant he began to sound. "I wouldn't even call Her a 'what'. She just sort of is."

Sherlock made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, "Perhaps if you referred to her by her name or maybe a title? Or perhaps one of those silly nicknames you often use when speaking to your insipid, boring girlfriends?"

With another low growl John pushed against a pair of locked doors until the bolt snapped. For perhaps a full minute the doctor froze. Even though the older man gave no outward sign, the detective had the impression John was trying to control his temper. That temper was something Sherlock had a very healthy respect for. He'd never actually seen John lose it before, but he had seen the aftermath of it, and that was enough for him to know he never wanted to be on the receiving end.

"I usually call Her the White Lady in my head." John started moving again, all trace of the growl gone, "I did ask once if she would tell me Her name or some kind of title to call Her by." He was quiet for a second, as if remembering. "She said She had many names, and more titles, but, if I really needed something to call Her, that Her name was 'Kina'." With another sidelong glance the doctor almost smiled seeing Sherlock mouthing the name silently, as if testing it.

"Keeenaah," Sherlock enunciated the name slowly, testing it. John emitted a huffing sound that seemed to be the only version of a laugh he was capable of making. "What is it you find so funny, John?"

"Just remembering Dartmoor. You sounded just the same trying to figure out what UMQRA meant."

Unlike John, Sherlock did not smile. For the detective that whole block of memory was a tense one. He'd been afraid and doubted the input of his senses, and then he'd almost irreparably damaged the only friendship he'd ever had. Changing tacks to drive out his unpleasant feelings, Sherlock asked, "What are her other titles?"

The doctor thought for a moment, opening another door and turning himself into the Women's Wing of the gallery, "Some of Her other titles are things like 'Lady Death' and 'the End of All Things'. 'The Destructor'." John smiled wryly.

"How dramatic," Sherlock began, only to stop short and stare.

Strung up like a macabre piece of sculpture, Russell hung limply from the curtains over a painting with his naked chest carved up and his intestines spilling down onto the floor. Gagged with what must have been Russell's tie, Irene was hogtied on the floor, trying to wriggle away from the slowly growing pool of crimson dripping from the open abdomen above her. She seemed to have been bound with strips of Russell's suit jacket.

"Despite evidence to the contrary," the White Lady, as John called Her, was leaning casually against the door out into the grounds, pale face illuminated by moonlight streaming through the glass, "I despise drama."

Now please remember that Sherlock was no stranger to sights of an extremely disturbing nature, so it wasn't the sight of Hannah's brother dangling like a gutted shark that made bile rise in the back of his throat. Nothing about the visual layout of the scene disturbed him. Neither did it surprise him that the symbol carved in Russell's chest that exactly matched the one burning in John's eyes, and the orientation of the room told Sherlock which portrait was behind the hanging body. What frightened him, beyond logic, was that the only person who could have committed the atrocity was John.

Without speaking further, the White Lady fluidly moved away from the door and put herself between Russell's corpse and Irene's struggling body. Crossing Her arms beneath Her chest, She raised Her head high and peered down Her nose at the doctor and the detective, one eyebrow raised imperiously. "I'm waiting."

John sighed loudly and continued trudging forwards, pausing only to swipe up a knife from the floor. He looked up the long way into Her face and pleaded, "Please try and be civil to him?"

"Get to work, little one."

As the doctor turned his attention to Irene, She walked around in front of Sherlock until Her body blocked all but the muffled sound of Irene beginning to scream. Placing Her fists on Her bony hips, She cocked Her head slightly to the side, once again giving Sherlock the feeling that he was being studied carefully. He wondered briefly if that was how other people felt when he deduced them.

"For someone who despises drama, you seem to exude it," the detective ventured, trying to be as calm as possible. The sound of John mumbling as Irene sobbed in pain was not helping.

A slow, rather pretty smile spread over the White Lady's features, "Consider it a flaw of my physical abnormalities. Surely you of all people know it's easier to appear intimidating when you're literally able to look down on everyone?"

Irene began keening in a loud, high pitch that cut off almost immediately as Sherlock's sensitive ears picked up the sound of metal sliding into flesh. John was still mumbling behind Her. Instead of commenting on the oddity of the situation, Sherlock simply replied, "It has it's advantages."

Her head ticked slowly to the other side and She squinted, making a soft humming sound. "You don't like me."

Sherlock lifted one of his own eyebrows, "Does that matter?"

"Not particularly. But usually people don't like me because of what I am, rather than what they perceive I've done to their friend."

Even though he didn't show it, Sherlock was a little shaken that the White Lady had read him so easily. "It is not something I 'perceive'. Obviously you must have done something to garner John's loyalty, and since you seem to have some serious delusions as to your own importance I can only imagine what that something might have been."

Like low thunder mixed with mirth, the laughter that spilled out of Her mouth was both beautiful and terrifying. "Is it so hard to believe that I am as my titles claim? That I am the Lady Death, who gathers the souls of the deceased to her bosom?" Turning to see how John was progressing, She gave Sherlock a view of John as the doctor wrenched the knife out of Irene's chest. "Be a dear and cut Russell down, Jonathan? It will make everything much easier."

John turned his blank face to Her, nodded, and rose up stiffly. Instead of cutting the man down, the doctor stuck the knife into his belt and gave a sharp tug to the curtains wrapped around the corpse's arms. Russell thudded onto the floor with a sickening noise, head slapping against the floor with a loud smack. Sherlock barely made out the doctor softly complaining, "And now there's grey matter on my shoes. This was a lovely trip, maybe next time we go on vacation I can get knee deep in manure."

This time her laughter was more musical than fear-inducing. "Stop complaining, dear. I'll see to everything in a moment. Just lay them out on their backs, would you?" She turned back to Sherlock and smiled again, "Where was I? Oh yes. I'm actually impressed that your first conclusion wasn't that I'd bewitched him."

Rolling his eyes, the detective snorted, "Such superstitions are frivolous and for minds far below average, not those who possess my level of genius. Witchery is impossible."

"So you say. However, Jonathan is dead and yet he moves. And I did cause him pain without being in the same room. Others might call that 'witchery'. Seeing as I did it, I wouldn't exactly call it impossible, would you?" Her smile was slightly more terrifying than the snarl of a panther. "Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."

So surprised was he at Her repetition of his own words, Sherlock actually took an involuntary step backwards. He recovered quickly though and retorted, "John is not dead."

"I'm sorry, child, but yes, he is." She actually did look apologetic. "Once I'm finished here he'll collapse. Don't fret though, your brother will be here soon, and after seeing the blood in the foyer he's already got another helicopter on the way." There was a deep sadness in Her endless eyes as She turned away.

Following Her closely, Sherlock watched as She leaned over Russell's body and dragged a hand along the bloody carving. The wounds hissed and frothed like a tempestuous sea, vanishing beneath Her hand. John handed over the knife and Sherlock continued to stare in blank-faced astonishment as She thrust the weapon into the open abdominal wound. With Her other hand She stuffed the intestines back inside the cavity, and seared the skin shut with the same dragging motion She used on the carving.

John got to his feet even slower than usual, his muscles creaking in protest. Since the detective's brain wasn't able to really process what he was seeing, he pushed his disbelief to the side with a sudden feeling of concern. Was John in pain at all? He had been shot a few times, and muscles were not supposed to make that sound when moving. All Sherlock got for his questioning glance was a jerky shrug as John locked eyes with him while lifting the decorative pistol from the floor.

More hissing sounds called Sherlock's gaze back to Irene's body. There was a look of utter terror stuck on her pretty face. The detective felt a little sorry for her, then felt one of his back muscles twitch and remembered the way she laughed when John had slumped to the floor. Considering everything she'd done, no, he did not feel any kind of pity for her, and he was very ashamed of himself for being so briefly admiring of her boldness.

"Would you like to do the honors?" The White Lady indicated Irene's body while looking curiously at John.

He seemed to consider the request for a moment, his gaze going from the pistol in his hands to the dead woman lying at his feet. Sherlock realized at that moment that the White Lady was trying to erase all signs of Her own involvement. The detective wondered why She would want to hide Her existence from the world if She were so very powerful. He refrained from actually voicing that thought when he saw John looking at him.

Pain flashed in John's darkened eyes as his gaze traveled over the visible wounds on Sherlock's pale flesh. It was immediately replaced with a cold hatred that surprised the detective. Without further hesitation, John fired three well-aimed rounds - one into each of Irene's hands, and one into her forehead.

This was not the gentle John Watson who made crying children smile, this was the soldier that lurked just beneath the surface. Dr. Watson seemed to have taken a momentary holiday and left a cruel predator in his skin. Sherlock swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, determined now, more than ever, to never, never, ever be on the receiving end of John's temper. The feeling of fear was gently tempered by a small feeling of warmth when Sherlock realized his own pain was the reason for his flatmate's ire.

"Nice grouping." Amusement and sarcasm colored the White Lady's tone. "Are you sure you don't want to riddle her with holes for good measure?"

"Nope. I'm good."

"Well then, since my work here is done, I should probably skedaddle before your friend's brother rears his smarmy head." Smiling brightly, the Lady made Her way over to the wall, looking up at the portrait.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, "You're just going to stand there?"

"Of course not," She snorted, "I'm leaving almost the same way I got here." Looking over Her shoulder, those fathomless eyes locked with Sherlock's blue gaze. "Coincidentally, you should use your powers of deduction after I'm gone."

Before he could ask what that meant, She kicked the wall and the portrait fell forward. Instead of ripping as he'd expected, the painting hit the floor without so much as bowing out. The detective walked tentatively forward and gently lifted the canvas back up, leaning it against the wall. Once again, the picture was pristine, with no blood spatter or other sign of wear. In the exact same position he'd first seen Her in, the Lady sat on the throne as if She had always been there.

Wait a moment, the picture wasn't the same. Instead of a mostly white dress, the Lady now wore a dress of pure scarlet. The hydra no longer had any heads, and one of the necks that had not yet been scorched seemed to be budding of a new head. It's tail had created a wall of scale and sand between the two fighters. Both fighters were wounded, but the brunette's wounds seemed superficial, even with an arrow buried in his side. The blonde was in tremendous pain, two arrows buried in his back - one exactly like the one in the brunette's side, and the other a match for the ones in the brunette's quiver. He seemed to be looking back over his shoulder, as if just realizing the danger behind.

All five of the heads lay out on the ground before the throne, but the pool of blood showed signs of small footprints leading into the brush on the left. Sherlock leaned forward, trying make out some detail of the small figure he could see in the bushes. It was holding a long-bow in mid-pull, and crouched behind the trunk of a tree.

"John, come here and look at this."

"Sorry, Sherlock," John sounded like he was choking, "I can't."

The detective looked back over his shoulder, ready to admonish his friend, until the sharp tang of blood filled his nostrils. John was down on one knee, the bullet wounds in his chest pouring crimson profusely, soaking his shirt. A slow line of scarlet drooled out the side of the doctor's mouth as he smirked tiredly.

Scrambling forward as John pitched sideways, Sherlock managed to keep the doctor's head from slamming against the floor. Breath rasping in his throat, John coughed sharply, trying in vain to cover his mouth and keep from spattering his friend's pale face with drops of bright red. The detective carefully lowered the older man to the ground, one hand lingering on the back of the doctor's neck.

"John, you have to stay awake." Sherlock's voice was fierce and held the slightest tinge of panic. "Mycroft will be here soon, remember? You're going to be just fine."

A snort tried to leave John's mouth but it twisted into a violent coughing fit somewhere between his throat and his lips. When he regained his composure he said softly, "He's already too late, Sherlock. We both know that." Every muscle in John's body relaxed, and the older man groaned as he tried to keep his eyes focused. "Don't worry about me. Just make sure, when we get to the hospital, that you get your back taken care of?" He struggled in another breath, the sound rattling in his lungs. "No fussing? I'm not going to be much help."

"Shut up, John, just shut up." Sherlock could hear the rapid footsteps out in the corridor, racing towards the gallery. "You aren't dead yet."

A tiny smirk graced the doctor's face as his flat, slate colored eyes drifted closed and all his motion ceased. Mycroft and his driver burst through the gallery door, gasping and panting, and Sherlock glanced up at them with a mixture of annoyance and panic on his face. Looking back down at his flatmate, Sherlock felt his whole chest tighten like a vice.

"John? John!"


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...I'm a little sorry. Just not enough to stop twisting the knife.

Death is defined as the permanent cessation of all vital functions of an organism, but such words cannot express all the finality that it entails. It doesn't warn you about the hole left in your psyche, the unbearable feeling of loss that reaches up from your stomach and threatens to choke the life out of you. There's no medical explanation for the tightness in your chest right where your heart resides, or the numbness that settles into your limbs as silent tears track down your cheeks. No words of succor in the English language can stop the gut-wrenching, throat-tearing sobs that threaten to burst from your mouth which you refuse to unleash until you are finally alone, and the room is as dark as pitch.

Hospital fluorescent lights were the worst sort of lighting when that feeling hits, as Sherlock was now finding out. All he wanted was to curl up in a ball in a dark corner of John's room, down some tranquilizers, and fall asleep forever. Unfortunately, Mycroft was being particularly stubborn about allowing Sherlock to sit at the bedside of his dead friend. So far, all the detective had managed was to be manhandled by hospital security into Hannah's private room.

Unlike Dr. Watson, Hannah was making a full recovery. It was almost miraculous really, impossible even, and that made Sherlock suspicious on top of his depression. He'd had enough 'impossible' during this whole ordeal, thank you, and he really didn't relish any more doubts of his own sanity. It was starting to give him a huge headache.

Wonder of wonders, she was also cancer free. When the doctor announced it to the family, it nearly made Sherlock leap out of his seat and start screaming. Fortunately, a cooler head prevailed, and Mycroft noticed the signs of imminent danger. The elder Holmes pressed a firm hand down on his brother's shoulder. It saved everyone the embarrassment of Sherlock losing the last shreds of his mind.

"It turns out that your family physician, Dr. Hammerstein? He misdiagnosed your daughter." Hannah's hospital physician was a softly spoken red-head, with a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. "What he thought was a recurring cancerous tumor was actually a cyst. There have been new breakthroughs in gynecological and hormonal studies that he's apparently completely neglected. Your daughter has what we refer to as PCOS - Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome."

"Is it curable?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"Not so much curable as manageable. We're going to start her on a low-dose birth control pill and see how her symptoms are affected." With a kind smile, the doctor patted both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes on the shoulders. "In the meantime, we're going to focus on getting her wound healed up, and undoing whatever damage the chemotherapy has done. We'd like to keep her here for at least a week."

"Absolutely," Mr. Holmes stood and shook the doctor's hand, "she can stay as long as you need her to. Spare no expense, please."

Mycroft stepped forward as the doctor turned to leave the room. He held out a hand and said, "I truly appreciate all you have done for us, Doctor…?"

"Uvinn. Anna Uvinn. And you are more than welcome. Good evening to you all." She gave Mycroft's hand a firm shake and smiled again.

Something in the back of Sherlock's brain tingled and he stared hard at her retreating back. As the door of the room swung shut she turned back and locked her brilliant green eyes on Sherlock's. Something in those green orbs glittered like a dying ember, and the detective bolted upward and out of the room, much to his family's discontent.

The elder Holmes followed him out and caught him around the wrist, "Sherlock, please, I know how upset you must be, but I think it is for the best that you are around our family right now."

"Get your hand off me, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed, ripping his wrist out of his brother's grip. "Leave me alone."

"Sherlock," there was a very soft note of concern in his brother's nasal voice, "I will not leave you alone. I know you well enough to predict your habits. If I let you out of my sight for even a moment, you will undoubtedly spiral out of control." Mycroft took his little brother by the shoulders and held on tight. "I will not allow you to do so."

"Mr. Holmes?" Ever-present Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, had exited Hannah's room and sidled up to the brothers, eyes never leaving her phone. "Miss Holmes requests Mr. Holmes' presence, Sir. She is in the process of telling your parents to go down to the commissary for some coffee."

"He'll be right in, Anthea. Go get yourself some coffee as well."

"Yes Sir." She re-entered the room, only to exit again with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes walking arm-in-arm behind her.

"Sherlock, go in and see your sister. And if you so much as put a toe out of that room, I will have security mace you."

The detective sighed deeply and pushed open the door to Hannah's private bedroom. His sister was calmly reclined in her bed, hands fiddling with the edges of the book someone had found for her. Sherlock dragged a chair loudly across the floor and planted it at her side.

Hannah reached out a hand, "Sherlock, I wanted you to know I don't blame you for this at all. And I want to tell you how sorry I am about John."

Though he refused to speak, the detective still took her hand. She squeezed him comfortingly and brought her other hand over to pat his wrist. Closing his eyes, Sherlock took a long moment to just breathe. It was entirely the wrong thing to do. All he could smell was the anti-septic, dry hospital smell, and it reminded him of too much. He swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump rising in his throat.

"I'm so sorry, brother dearest. I liked him very much. He was so kind and gentle, such a sweet man."

"Please," the detective's voice rasped in his throat, "Hannah, please stop talking about him." Sherlock laid his head down on the side of the bed as he felt a single tear slip down his cheek.

He loved Hannah, but all he wanted was John. He wanted the best friend he'd ever had, the only man who had ever accepted him for all that he was, without question. John, who would pat him on the shoulder or the back and smile that calm, warm, admiring smile and tell him how proud he was of him. Sherlock wanted to say the things he'd never gotten to say, ask the questions he'd never gotten to ask, to thank John for everything the doctor had ever done. To think that John would never be there again to smooth aloe gel over a chemical burn, or be there to make sure he didn't collapse in exhaustion, or quietly sigh in contentment at a new concerto. The ache in his mind was unbearable, immeasurable, not quantifiable; the hole in his heart was raw, infected, and even if it scarred over eventually, the inside would still be painfully hollow.

When Mycroft and their parents returned a few moments later, they found Hannah quietly asleep. In the far, dark corner of the room, Sherlock sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his legs as he rested his forehead on his knees. Carefully positioning himself between his brother and their parents, Mycroft placed his umbrella firmly on the floor and shook his head once from side to side.

"Don't worry," he whispered softly, "I'll take care of him."

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief as he trudged into the living room of 221B Baker Street and took in the scenery. Papers and photos and some kind of liquid cheese were spread all over the floor and furniture. The only things spared from the mess were the old, dust-covered violin and the armchair that had been John's favorite. God it was a terrible sight to see, but the Detective Inspector could muster no anger towards the pale man splayed out on the couch like a squashed spider.

He had seen Sherlock high as a kite and drunk as a lord, but he had never seen the consulting detective in a state like this. It had been six months since John had left them, and since then the detective had been in rehab twice for cocaine use, and rushed to the hospital 10 times for alcohol poisoning and self-harm. The only reason the man wasn't on a 24-hour psych watch was that he could lie straighter than a goddamn Persian rug.

"Got another dual homicide for you, if you're sober enough." Lestrade's gaze flicked over the whiskey bottles lined up along the coffee table.

Sherlock did not answer, unless the DI was willing to accept his throwing an arm across his eyes as one. As frustrating as it was that Lestrade even had to ask, the feeling was compounded by the DI's frustration with his consultant's rapid physical and mental decay. After all, it wasn't Lestrade's fault that John had gone off to greener pastures.

"Please, Sherlock, your brother is breathing down my neck about this. I finally found out the connection between all these damned deaths, no thanks to you by the way, and now he won't stop bloody calling me. I know he's been texting you because he said so."

"Boring." The detective's voice sounded like he'd been gargling glass.

"What the bloody hell do you mean 'boring'? These people are government spies who have been systematically assassinated for the past 12 weeks. Their killers leave no trace evidence behind. How is any of that boring?" Sherlock didn't answer and Lestrade let out a groan, carefully making his way to the clean armchair.

He'd only put a hand on the back of the chair when the detective shot up in his seat and snarled, "Get your hands away from John's chair."

"For the love of God, Holmes," Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out slowly, running his hands down his face. "You've got to get out of this funk you're in! It's killing you! John is gone and he's obviously not coming back!"

Rearing up like a striking cobra, Sherlock lunged across the floor and slammed Lestrade into the wall with a surprising amount of strength. "Shut your stupid mouth, Inspector! You know nothing about it! I thought our first conversation on this point was enough, but it seems your inferior mind needs a refresher!"

Actually, the DI didn't need a refresher. He still had a scar on his upper arm from where he'd been hit with Sherlock's harpoon. "Will you please get a bloody hold on yourself, Holmes?"

As if all the energy had suddenly left the detective's limbs, Sherlock flopped onto the dirty floor and pressed his face into the carpet. Lestrade sighed deeply and squatted at his sort-of-friend's side, placing a hand on one slim shoulder. Both men were quiet for a long moment before the detective groaned loudly.

"Come back in an hour. I'll be ready."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I will owe you more than you realize when you solve this."

"Just go."

Listening to the DI's retreating footsteps, Sherlock waited another five minutes after the front door shut before dragging himself up and into the kitchen. It took him another 2 minutes to locate the kettle, fill it with water, and set it to boil. Pulling down the box of teas, he located a clean mug in the back of one of the cupboards and set it beside the kettle. He started to shuffle through the teabags, searching for something strong.

It was the moment that he dropped a packet of Irish Breakfast on the counter when he realized that he'd only taken out one mug, and it was John's favorite. It was the first time in months that he hadn't gotten two mugs down and the sixth time that mug had made its appearance. Lifting it carefully in his pale fingers, Sherlock traced the faded RAMC logo and tapped the edge of the mug against his lips. John hated it when someone else used that mug.

He'd never understood sentiment before, but he understood it now. Loss had awakened it inside him with terrible force. A lump formed in his throat whenever he saw one of John's tea mugs. He couldn't stand to see anyone sit in the old leather armchair where the doctor always read the morning paper. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to break and burn all of his lost friend's belongings so he wouldn't have to feel the hole in his life anymore. Another part of him screamed at that thought.

Sherlock returned the mug to the cupboard and washed one of the dirty ones from the sink. Leaving the tea to steep, he dragged himself into a scorching hot shower. He managed to get himself dressed into his only clean black suit and a pale blue shirt. Picking up his tea and glancing at the clock he realized he had a full half hour at least until Lestrade returned.

Slowly the detective mounted the stairs up to John's bedroom. Since his return to Baker Street, Sherlock hadn't had the heart to enter it, even though he knew Mycroft had sent someone to clean the place out. Opening that door was one of the hardest things that Sherlock had ever done.

He stood for thirteen straight minutes, just staring at the blank room, the empty bed frame and closets. Crossing to the nightstand, he traced the small dents in the wood from all the times John had slapped down hard on his alarm clock. A glint of silver caught his eye and his fingers grazed something metal.

Glancing down, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the metal chain that had definitely not been there a few moments ago. Holding the object in the small amount of streetlamp light, he dangled it in front of his eyes. When he identified it as John's dog tags, Sherlock had to grind his teeth to keep from crying out.

Putting his mug down, he stroked a finger over the raised letters of his blogger's name. Lestrade called his name from somewhere downstairs and without thinking Sherlock whipped the chain over his head and tucked the tags into his shirt. The metal was cold against his chest, resting just above his heart. Something about it being there, falling exactly there, made Sherlock feel that same warmth he felt whenever John had gotten protective of him.

Lifting his mug back up off the table, he slowly descended the stairs and met the DI on the landing into the flat. Dropping his mug in the sink, Sherlock gathered his coat and scarf, donning them slowly, and carefully composed his face back into its customary blank mask. He patted his pocket, checking to make sure he had his mobile, and took a deep breath, feeling the cold metal of the tags press into his flesh.

"The game is on, Lestrade. Let's go."

Racing down the back alleys of London was not nearly as fun with Lestrade as it was with John. First of all, the DI had an annoying wheeze, which was more and more pronounced the longer they ran. Second, as physically fit as Lestrade was, he couldn't keep up worth a damn. That was strange, actually, since the Inspector was much nearer Sherlock's height than John had been. Or maybe, beneath those jumpers, John had always been fitter than he seemed.

Rounding a corner, Sherlock cursed as their prey slipped into a pub. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk and Lestrade blundered into him. The detective growled underneath his breath and shook himself, giving the Inspector a cruel, cold stare of annoyance. Turning his eyes back to the door of the pub, Sherlock gave their suspect a good seven minutes before exiting again. Time to play the waiting game.

Normally, he'd have spent this time chatting with John about inconsequential things like whose turn it was to buy milk or why there was a hand in the crisper. With Lestrade there was only silence, and a wheezy one at that, while the DI tried desperately to refill his lungs. Sherlock glanced once at his watch, and then pressed a hand to his chest, feeling John's tags press into his skin. He covered the action by pretending he was adjusting his scarf.

Using his superior height, Sherlock made out the back of their quarry's head as the man exited the pub with three other men. The detective took off like a shot, ignoring Lestrade's whiny groan of unhappiness at having to run again. When the man realized that Sherlock was once again on his tail, he darted into an alleyway. Undaunted, the detective quickened his pace and followed the man into the dark, tight street.

He didn't see the pistol until he was already flat on his back with a bullet in his thigh. Lestrade shouted something from far away, but Sherlock was already getting dizzy from blood loss. The DI slid to a halt on the wet pavement, almost tripping over himself as he fired two rounds into the dark. Neither shot hit, and Lestrade screamed into his radio for an ambulance while trying to hold pressure down on Sherlock's wound. With shaking hands Sherlock pulled his scarf off and wrapped it around his upper thigh, using it as a tourniquet.

Fighting back the darkness that threatened to claim him, Sherlock ached as he discovered a whole new appreciation for his lost doctor. Lestrade was shaky and obviously fighting back panic. He kept babbling incessantly and was leaning just a tad too hard on the detective's wounded leg. Detective Inspector or not, Lestrade was no substitute, at all, for John Watson.

If John had been there, the second Sherlock had been shot the doctor would have not only put a bullet in the suspect's back, he'd have been down on one knee assessing his friend's wound. The scarf would have already found its new purpose via John's capable hands, and the doctor's own jumper would be carefully pressed against the still bleeding wound. There would be no gibbering, and no shouting. John would calmly call Lestrade requesting an ambulance ASAP and in his best 'bedside manner' tone assure Sherlock that everything would be just fine.

Reaching up, Sherlock gripped the tags beneath his shirt and, just before passing out, snarled, "Lestrade, do shut up!"


	17. Chapter 16

Even without opening his eyes, the beeping of the heart monitor told Sherlock that he was in the hospital. Annoyance flashed through his thoughts before he remembered that this time it was because he was actually wounded, not because he had accidentally (pronounced: on-purpose) overdosed on cocaine. Wading through the haze of painkillers pumping through his system, Sherlock walked himself through the last few hours he could remember before passing out.

His eyes flashed open as he groped with his non-IV hand for the dog tags that should have been hanging around his neck. At first, he could not feel anything, and it panicked him. Reaching farther up, his fingers brushed cool metal and with a loud sigh he tugged the metal discs up from where they had fallen beside his neck. Seeing them shine in the dim light from outside the door made his face relax into a small smile.

The door opened to reveal his brother's familiar silhouette and Sherlock groaned deeply. "I see you've finally decided to rejoin the land of the living, brother dear."

"Can't you just go the hell away, Mycroft? I'm obviously alive and well. And aren't visiting hours over?"

"As if I am not above such things as 'visiting hours'. I thought you had a leg injury, not a head wound."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and held the tags to his heart, "Droll as always I see. How boring. Leave."

Instead of doing as the detective commanded, Mycroft sauntered further into the room and flicked on the lights. Sherlock grunted at the sudden brightness, throwing his arm over his eyes and cringing when the IV tugged. Something cold poked him in the chest and lifted the chain on his neck until he removed the arm.

"How sentimental you've become, Sherlock. That's a chemical defect found on the losing side, remember?"

Shoving the umbrella from the chain, the detective growled, "I have already lost, Mycroft. I believe even I am allowed a certain amount of sentiment while grieving."

His elder brother sighed and relaxed into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, "Perhaps that is true. But, then again, you are a sociopath. I must say that I am surprised you even understand that what you are feeling is grief."

"In the name of all that is scientific, please leave, Mycroft. If there is one person in this entire universe that I do not wish to have in my presence at this moment, it is you!" While Sherlock's voice steadily rose, Mycroft did not even blink. "Take your insipid umbrella and float the hell away on it!"

Before his brother could post a retort, the door of the room swung open again to reveal a lovely blonde woman in a pristine doctor's coat. She gave both men a small, genuine smile, "I see our patient is awake! I'm very happy for you, Mr. Holmes. Your brother's injury was not as dangerous as previously thought."

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, rudely, on the fact that she had apparently just come from shagging someone in the break-room, when Mycroft stood up and shook her hand. "Thank you, Doctor O'Keefe. You have been more than helpful."

"If you would please accompany me to the nurse's station, I'd like to discuss a few things with you before we decide the best course of action for his recovery?"

"I am right here, you know." Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "It's rather rude to speak of someone like they aren't there."

Dr. O'Keefe smiled again and patted the detective's arm. He jerked away, giving her a look that would have curdled milk. Her smile widened and softened, instead of faltering, and she giggled a bit. Sherlock fought the impulse to wrap his IV tube around her neck and squeeze.

Again, the door swung open to reveal a petite, black-haired nurse in pale pink scrubs. The girl carried another bag of IV fluids and a small syringe on a metal tray, which she placed down on the bedside table. Dr. O'Keefe gave the girl a more vacant version of her smile, making it obvious she didn't care for the nurse at all.

"Nurse Heim is here to change your brother's IV and give him something to help him sleep if he accepts it." The smile turned vaguely flirty, "If you'd honor me with filling out some paperwork, Mr. Holmes?"

"Certainly." Mycroft patted his brother's knee, making the detective twitch unhappily. "Be good for the nurse, Sherlock."

Sherlock grumbled, "What kind of a name is 'Heim' anyway?"

Eyes focused on preparing the IV tube, the nurse said in a soft, calm voice, "If it makes you feel better, you can call me by my first name - Helen."

While the detective sneered at this, Dr. O'Keefe held the door open for Mycroft and, as she exited, said over her shoulder, "If he gives you any trouble just shout, Hel."

As the door swung closed, something pressed icy fingers into Sherlock's spine while the nurse locked her jade-green eyes with his. Something in those cat-like orbs glittered and flickered like a dancing flame. Her smile as the door clicked shut was feral and mad, like a human Cheshire Cat fallen out of Wonderland.

"Hel Heim," Sherlock whispered, "the Viking land of the dead."

"I'm surprised you didn't catch on with 'Anna Uvinn'."

"The Welsh land of the dead. I am sensing a pattern. Am I to assume you are also working for that woman, the White Lady?" Sherlock's voice was tight with apprehension (and a bit of anger) as he stared into her glittering eyes.

"Oh, darling, I don't work for her. I'm what you might call an outpost, of sorts. A little piece of the greater whole."

Inside the room, the lights dimmed, the bulbs fizzing and popping as three of the ceiling tiles warped and cracked. A fat, live wire slithered down from the ceiling, hissing like an angry asp. The wire writhed and twisted until it coiled up around her leg and torso, a growing vine of electric death. Sparks danced between the bare metal ends, racing along her bare arm and over her fingers.

Swallowing as fear added itself to the emotions racing through his drug-slowed mind, Sherlock couldn't even gather the strength to scream for help. He had a feeling it wouldn't have done any good anyway. After what he'd seen Her do to John, he had a feeling escape would be a fruitless endeavor.

Using Her other hand like a lightening rod, She melted one of the bedside lamps with a well-aimed shock. The smug smile that danced across Her rose-stained lips was worse than the feral one. She crossed the room, circling around the bed, reminding the detective of a hungry lioness. Smoke wisped up from the bed railing, adding the acrid smell of scorched metal to the sterile air.

With vicious force Her un-electrified hand lashed out and struck him across the cheek, making his eye feel like it was about to explode. "You are so lucky I am not allowed to kill you, you cantankerous clod!" Her voice was deafening, even though the volume of Her speech never rose above a conversational hiss. "For what you've done to him you deserve nothing less than to rot forever in my Abyss!"

Sherlock grunted as She struck him again, feeling his lip split open and begin to bleed. Obviously, he'd done something extremely unforgivable in Her eyes. He wondered what it could have been as painful fire raced through his veins. The muscles of his chest constricted wildly as she gave him a powerful shock of electricity. His throat closed up, leaving him gasping for air, unable to scream.

Even after the shock stopped, his muscles continued to seize, every fiber and nerve jerking spasmodically. He forced himself to speak around the choking feeling as his throat opened and closed. "Please! What. Are you. Talking about?"

Straddling his stomach, she gripped his jaw with her bare hand, the power of the lightning dancing over her skin making all the hair on his body stand on end. The grip was unnecessary; Sherlock couldn't have escaped her soul-searing gaze if his life depended on it (not that he thought his life was worth anything). "If I had my druthers, you would be flayed into tiny little pieces and stuffed in dark box, which would in turn be tossed into a well, which I would then fill with kerosene and set on fire." She bent down and spoke directly into his ear, her voice grating on his eardrums, "I finally thought he'd found someone to take away his pain, someone to quiet the horrors that rip his mind apart in the darkness. After all that he's done for you, all the sacrifices he's made, all the pain…"

A horrendous, keening noise broke from Her throat and She contorted the body She inhabited into an unfathomable pose. Part of him shivered in fear, but another part of him recognized a sound of torture when he heard one. Why would She find this torturous? Was She doing this against Her will? Just a few seconds ago, it seemed like She was enjoying herself.

Once more, those hypnotic eyes bored into his, "All that pain! Everything, all for you! He killed himself for you, and what did you give him in return?" Angry as Her voice was, there was a quavering note of anguish resonating deep beneath it. Despite the symbol deep within Her dilated pupils, that burned red as an iron bar in a forge fire, Sherlock could almost feel the sorrow in Her gaze. "You abandoned him! Left him to the nightmares and the demons! A sociopath you may be, but I have never heard you to be inhumane!"

This time the shock felt never ending. Every nerve in his body screeched in pain, and every muscle rippled uncontrollably. When She released him from the shocks again, his brain felt like it was shattering into a thousand pieces. It was hard, but he forced himself to focus on what She was saying.

"I save your pompous ass of a brother from a car bomb, and your precious step-sister from a gunshot wound, all because he asked it of me! Then, even when you reject him, and have him shipped to the worst place imaginable for a man like him, he begs me to look after you! Begs!" Sherlock took the moment in which She leaned back to read the look on Her face. She looked incredulous, angry, befuddled, and sad. "You tore out his heart, then kicked it over a hundred thousand miles, and he tells me to keep you safe!"

While the next strike was not as long, it was just as painful, and Sherlock felt darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. He thought he was going to pass out when suddenly the wire whipped across his face, stinging him back into consciousness. Putting both Her fists beside his ears, She leaned right into his face and let out a long, frustrated rumble that bounced around the room until the detective thought he had gone deaf.

Even though She lowered Her voice to a whisper, Sherlock could hear every letter as She spoke, nearly nose to nose with him, "Irene related something to me the fourth day I took time out of my busy schedule to carve her to ribbons. She told me you said that 'Love is a dangerous disadvantage'. You are correct. You should see what loving you has done to my poor Jonathan."

A shake of Her arm tossed the sparking wire backwards to bounce and hiss against the linoleum floor. Pressing Her thumbs into the detective's neck, on either side of his trachea, Sherlock could feel the life pumping in his veins. His eyes started out of his head, but it wasn't the pain. It was the realization that She was speaking of John as if he were still alive.

He coughed, trying to speak, trying to ask a question, and She cocked Her head slowly to one side. Narrowing Her eyes, She let the pressure slacken ever so slightly, allowing him enough air to speak. All he could manage was, "John alive?"

"Of course he's alive," She stated matter-of-factly, "why wouldn't he be? I gave him the Choice again, same as the last time."

"Ch-choice?"

With a deep sigh, she lifted herself off him and perched herself on the side of his mattress, one leg dangling over a bedrail. "Yes, the Choice. I suppose he didn't get the chance to explain our arrangement?" He nodded instead of answering, afraid to speak. She sighed heavily, blowing an errant lock of hair from Her eyes. "Marvelous. Here is the bare bones of it - when John dies and enters my realm, he is presented with the Choice. It is his decision what path he chooses to take. If he chooses to live, he lives, if he chooses to move on to 'Heaven' or 'Hell'," Sherlock had to fight not to start chuckling when She made air-quotes as She spoke, "and so on and so forth. There are an infinite number of decisions, therefore I collectively call them the Choice."

So far, he was able to follow what She was saying, even if he couldn't really believe it. What he was curious about was the logic behind it. Why would She offer him such a thing?

Clapping Her hands, She continued talking, "Once the Choice is made, and the path is set, off he goes. Until, of course, he dies again."

Sherlock licked his lips, "Then what?"

"Lather, rinse, repeat."

The detective mulled everything over in his head, the gears of his genius sluggishly turning. He began to speak again but started coughing instead, Her onslaught having left him nearly dehydrated. A straw appeared near his lips and he sucked in several mouthfuls before it disappeared again. While he got his breathing back in order, he noticed the cup in her hand that she carefully placed back onto the bedside table.

"So what you're saying is that John chose to live?"

"And to continue to serve me. I believe it was his way of protecting you."

"How does being your slave protect me?"

"Silly boy, he's no slave, at least not in the way you think." The way She clicked Her tongue against Her teeth reminded him of Mycroft. It rather made him want to punch Her in the face. "I'm a very laissez-faire sort of person so I ask very little of him - just to save lives or ensure certain souls pass into my hands. In return, he may ask me any number of things, depending on how long and faithfully he has served. Usually he asks me to protect certain people; make sure they don't enter the Realm of the Dead for anything other than natural causes. All the people I protect and all the people who serve me live very long, healthy lives."

"Provided they don't live dangerously."

To say Her laughter was as beautiful as the tinkling of a thousand bells of pure silver would be to imply that the Gobi was a little on the parched side. "Dangerous or boring, my servants live very long lives indeed, especially if they choose to serve again and again."

Ok, that was a little confusing. Sherlock cleared his throat softly and spoke once more, trying to get some clarification, "So you let them choose every time?"

"Yes. Every death garners another Choice. Most of them continue in my service, but every once in a while they might opt out for a few years. That's what Jonathan did when they shipped him home."

"So he hasn't always served you faithfully."

She let out a very unladylike snort, "When he was my servant, he served as faithfully as any man. What he did faith-wise while he was not my servant was his own business. His loyalty, however, is absolute, as you should know which is why he never mentioned me to you."

The look She fixed on him made his cheekbones flush in anger, "I know exactly how loyal John is, thank you."

"If that's true, then you can certainly understand why I am so infuriated at your callous dismissal," She paused mid-sentence and placed a finger to Her lips in contemplation. Her eyes narrowed as She fixed a steady glare at the wall behind Sherlock's head.

By sheer force of will, Sherlock managed not to start bombarding Her with more questions. He hated it when someone (besides John) interrupted his thinking, and assumed She was probably the same. If there was anything he didn't want, it was to anger Her any further than She already seemed to be.

Piercing his blue eyes with a hard glare that seared down into his soul, She asked, "Who told you he was dead, anyway?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was bitter.

"When?"

"After he sent Anthea for information from John's doctor."

Her head cocked to the side and Her eyes narrowed. "Is that the woman with the brown hair? The one who's always texting?" At Sherlock's affirmative nod, She growled.

As if a switch inside his head had flipped, thoughts began to race and ricochet inside Sherlock's head. Clues fell rapidly into place as a chain of events established itself in his mind's eye. Each wrinkle and line of pain and worry quickly reformed itself into a smooth expression of clarity. His mouth formed a perfect 'o' shape as a conclusion suddenly thrust itself into the forefront of his neural processes.

"Thought of something, have you?" She was giving him that strange, calculating look again.

"I'm assuming it was Anthea who told you I wanted nothing to do with John, judging by the way you growled?" He paused, considering Her for a second. "She was probably under Mycroft's orders to do so. When she returned to the room, after my brother sent her to inquire how John was faring, she whispered in his ear. My guess would be she told him that John was still alive."

Frowning, She glanced thoughtfully out the window into the night. "Why would he lie to you?"

"As if you didn't know," he hissed.

Instead of striking out at him, She merely blinked, and then smiled softly. "I'm omnipresent, child, not omniscient. I can't read minds or the future."

Curiosity bloomed in his head at that statement. "So you know everything that's going on but not what's going to happen?"

This time Her smile was indulgent, "That's one way to put it, yes, but it is much more complex than that. For example, I know that right now, your brother is agitated with your paperwork, your Mrs. Hudson is making tea, and Gregory Lestrade is filing his report of your shooting. Anthea is texting; Sally Donovan and Michael Anderson have locked themselves inside the cold case storage room for a quick blow, and one of the six-year-old leukemia patients downstairs is about to code." Her smile turned soft and sad. "Jonathan is elbow deep in a 9-year-old girl who's uncle shot her in the abdomen, even though he knows it's too late to save her."

Sherlock's stomach twisted at the thought of John, covered in a child's blood, trying desperately to prevent the inevitable. He could picture, with perfect accuracy, the look of utter defeat that would deepen the lines of the doctor's face when any of his patients passed on. The feeling of defeat, Sherlock knew, would be compounded by the feeling of abandonment that was probably eating away at his doctor's insides.

It was the thought that John would be in pain that turned Sherlock's voice soft and small, "Please tell me you are going to tell him the truth?"

Again, She fixed Her terrifying eyes on his, "What truth?"

"That I don't hate him. Please don't," he paused to swallow, buying himself a moment to think about how to say the emotion he wasn't sure he could express, "don't let him think I left him out in the cold again. Don't let him keep thinking I broke my promise."

One of Her hands reached towards his face and Sherlock flinched. Instead of striking him, She cupped his cheek and stroked a thumb beneath his eye, wiping away the single tear he'd allowed to escape. The symbol burning within Her eyes flashed from red to brilliant white.

Rising with the grace of an acrobat, She turned away and flicked a hand at the still sparking wire. It slithered back up to rejoin its other half, while the ceiling tiles sealed themselves back together. The bedside lamp whirled up like a tornado, reforming itself back into its original shape and flickering on. Everything had returned to its original position and condition.

With Her back still turned to him, She softly spoke, "You've probably noticed how protective I am of Jonathan. I suppose it's because no one has ever protected him before that I feel such rage on his behalf." Turning, She wrapped Her arms around Her midsection and returned to Sherlock's side. Her eyes were tumultuous with emotions he couldn't place. "He has been through so much pain, none of which he deserved. For the sake of his sanity, and to alleviate some of the pain in his heart, I will pass on your words. Know this, though," Gripping the bedside rail with a white-knuckled grip, She leaned into his face, "while the sentiment may calm him, give him hope, it may be too little too late."

Sherlock balled the sheets in his hands at Her expression. "If you want to protect him so much, stop his pain, then bring him home."

"I can't bring him home." Her voice was even softer than before, and he could pick up notes of sadness and weariness in it. "Someone with a lot of political clout ordered his deployment. If he was sent there as a civilian, I might have been able to sneak him out, but as a soldier, I cannot. He would be considered AWOL and a deserter."

"I'm going to kill Mycroft for this," Sherlock hissed, "and then I'm going to find John and bring him home and never let him out of my sight again."

An enigmatic smile lit Her face at the possessive tone that entered his voice at the latter part of his speech. "That is good to hear, child, and since your words please me I will give you a bit of information that you may find useful." With practiced ease, She switched his IV. "Jonathan is in Africa."

Behind Her, Mycroft entered the room again with a muted expression of distaste on his face. Quietly 'Nurse Heim' gathered up the used IV and the needle, picked up the tray, and made Her way to the exit. To Sherlock's amusement, Mycroft shuddered as She passed by on Her way out the door. The elder Holmes shot a puzzled look at the door before shaking his head and strutting his way over to one of the plastic chairs at his brother's bedside.

Both brothers were silent for a very long time, staring at each other with calculating gazes. The moment Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock growled, "Why the hell did you lie to me?"

His elder brother sat with his mouth partially open for a full half-second. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"You lied to me about John. Why did you lie?"

"I did not lie to you, brother."

"You sent John to Africa behind my back and told me he was dead." Anger made Sherlock's cheeks flush and he leaned forward in his agitation. "You always say you care about me, are concerned for me, and yet you told me that my doctor was dead. You let me destroy myself for months now, all the time knowing," the detective paused, brow furrowing.

Mycroft looked absolutely flabbergasted. The last time Sherlock had seen his brother so confused they were still in boarding school, and the detective had just expressed his wish to become a pirate. It was then that Sherlock realized he wasn't the only one who had been played.


	18. Chapter 17

Thunder rumbled deeply from the sky as another downpour spilled into the already chokingly humid jungle air. It was the fourth rainstorm in a week, and as much as he was used to rain (London was greyer than grey most months), he was starting to be sick of it. He was getting to the point where he was actually enjoying seeing his arms caked in blood, if only to see a splash of color.

Sick thoughts like that had been permeating John's brain off and on ever since he had been dumped in the hellhole of a refugee camp, and he was really starting to worry about his sanity. Being thrust into one of his worst nightmares could do that to a man. However, ever since She had come a visiting, he hadn't really been thinking like that.

His mind flashed back to nearly a week ago, when he'd just finished sewing a dead little girl back together. Silently he'd slipped out of the surgery tent, stumbling his way through the dense foliage. Unlike the others in the camp, John held no fear of the dangers of the African night. Nocturnal predators just didn't elicit a response from someone who was already dead inside.

Every moment he was trapped in his duty, every time he saw the broken women or the torn children he could feel the pain of his calling. As a doctor, it was his job to heal, to alleviate pain, and it was something he loved doing. However, here, in the darkened interior of the rainforest, where genocide and genital mutilation and rape where so pervasive, the healer in him was slowly withering into madness.

If only he could have a little hope that maybe, one day, he could go home and settle in his armchair with a nice cup of tea while Sherlock pulled a sonata into the air, he wouldn't feel like he was being smothered. Oh, he never should have thought that name! That name, as much as it comforted, was poison to his psyche. It filled every beat of his heart with molten pain. He was rotting on the inside, with every muscle and organ aching as it decayed.

He stopped in a small trickle of moonlight and found himself stomach to face with a spotted hyena sitting in the clearing. The jungle denizen rocked its head back and forth like a live metronome. With a distinct air of nonchalance, it raised a front paw and began to lick it clean.

"Don't worry, child, she's just here to make sure we aren't disturbed."

Keeping the creature in his sight, John slowly turned himself until he could make out the flash of white teeth in a dark face, somewhere in the direction the voice had come from. The voice and glittering eyes he recognized, but the face he didn't, which meant he wasn't dreaming. This body had skin as black as ebony, and was stockier than Her usual avatars. She moved out into the silvery light and scratched the carnivore behind the ears.

"How many more of them have you got scouring around out there?" John knew his voice sounded exhausted and gravelly.

Instead of answering, She smiled. A loud cacophony of yelps and giggles severed the air, surrounding John in a cocoon of sound that grated on his eardrums. Instead of pressing his hands to his head, the doctor reveled in the pain.

Silence descended abruptly as She sliced a hand through the air. "Now, now, Jonathan. It's only pain. Just a firing of nerve endings, nothing to get worked up about and certainly nothing to crave." Crossing Her arms beneath an ample chest, She popped one hip sideways as She bent a knee. "I'm sure you can figure out why I'm here?"

"Sight-seeing?"

One of Her eyebrows lifted, "Are we going to have another conversation about sarcasm, Jonathan?"

He shook his head, shoulders slumping, "Of course not."

Dark hands clasped his biceps as She placed a motherly kiss to his forehead, "I come bearing truth and news that should finally pull you out of the mire of depression." When he didn't speak, She forced him to look into Her eyes by grasping his chin and pulling up. "He doesn't hate you and he hasn't broken his promise. Sherlock didn't even know you were alive." Her eyes were full of the soft sorrow he associated with mothers doting on their sick children. "He's destroying himself, and judging by his physical appearance he's nearly ready for an invitation to my hall."

Every nerve cell in John's head immediately stopped firing. Shock, and the slightest tinge of fear, flashed through eyes that had not truly seen since he'd been told his best friend despised him. Cold, heavy rage coiled in his belly as his thoughts fired back up and neatly placed themselves in a line.

The snarl that escaped from his lips riled the hyenas into a riot. One of the mysterious, smug smiles that always made him uncomfortable quirked the corners of Her lips. Behind his eyes he felt the familiar tingle of Her symbol flaring to life and had to close his eyes, taking deep, panting breaths, in order to regain control of himself.

"I'm glad you're taking this so well."

John returned Her smile wolfishly and his voice rumbled with bestial promise, "When I get home, I'm going to do so many horrible things to whoever ripped us apart that I will make Moriarty look like fucking Santa Claus."

Rich and wicked, Her laugh permeated the night, silencing everything in the jungle from insect to carnivore. "That's my boy. Now hustle on back to your tent and get some rest. I have a feeling Sherlock is going to be working night and day to bring you home now that he knows."

He took a few steps away from Her and then turned back suddenly, his brow wrinkled in thought. Walking back over, he reached up to his neck and began to tug something out of his shirt. "Will you give him something from me?"

A beatific smile spread over Her face as She pressed a hand against the one struggling with his collar. "He already has a set. He was wearing them."

Blinking, John could only ask, "How the hell did he get a set of my dog tags?"

"Must you underestimate me?"

Laughing again, John shortly forgot himself and hugged Her. "Thank you."

Her return hug was bone crushing in an almost sisterly way, "I just left them where I thought he might find them. I didn't realize he was wearing them until I left him in the hospital."

Thrusting Her suddenly back to arms' length, John's voice broke as he squeaked, "Hospital?"

"Calm down, Jonathan, you know I'm watching over him. He's as safe as can be until you return to him."

John allowed himself to nod, swallowing back the fear, at Her subtle reminder. If She was watching over Sherlock, then the detective was nigh untouchable. He was still worried, though. Knowing how Sherlock could be, John pushed the fear out of his mind and bent his thoughts to how he could reach out to his consulting detective, and remind the man how much he cared.

John returned his mind to the present, stroking the edge of the paper in his hands. He didn't want to be too obtuse, because Sherlock could be entirely too literal sometimes. Being blunt wouldn't go well either, because even if the man really was a complete sociopath, what John really wanted to say would probably send the detective running. Picking up his abandoned pen, John started in on his fifth draft that night.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Sherlock turned in a circle, drinking in his surroundings and letting his racing thoughts slowly settle into little more than white noise. His delicate hands trembled slightly as he stroked the duvet, reveling in the sensation of soft, cool cotton against his skin. Closing his eyes, the detective took in a deep breath and slowly let it out again, feeling the tense muscles of his shoulders relax.

The first thing he had demanded on his release from the hospital (besides crutches) was that Mycroft return all of John's things to the flat. Nothing would stop the detective from finding whatever storage facility his doctor's things had been stashed in, so what would Mycroft really gain by not acquiescing? It probably helped that the elder Holmes was convinced Sherlock had finally lost his tenuous grasp on sanity.

He and Mycroft had argued for 3 hours that first night, until Sherlock really became convinced that his elder brother wasn't lying. Mycroft had absolutely no idea that John was alive and in Africa. Sherlock then sat for a full half-hour wondering who could have been responsible. Certainly not Anthea; she didn't have the clearance or the brainpower to plan something like John's deployment, although she was obviously a participating factor. Unfortunately, as Mycroft did not believe a word his brother said, Sherlock was forced to back down in his obsession with interrogating the constantly texting secretary.

Allowing himself a moment of pure sentimentality, the detective grasped the dog tags around his neck and pressed them briefly to his lips. A shy smile, which he reserved only for moments when he was utterly alone, stole across his mouth. It was a private expression that he kept only for when his thoughts settled on John.

Somewhere downstairs in the flat a door closed, and all the tension that had begun to disappear returned. With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock hobbled his way out of John's room and down to the main floor of the flat. Seeing Mycroft standing quietly, peering at a handful of envelopes, in the middle of the living room doubled the amount of tension clenching his muscles.

To Sherlock's surprise, the elder Holmes dropped his umbrella and all but one of the envelopes to the floor. Pressing his now unoccupied, fisted hand to his lips, Mycroft stared in complete astonishment at the piece of mail before his eyes. When he pulled it closer to his face, Sherlock realized his brother was studying the handwritten address.

"Ever the nosy busy-body, aren't you, Mycroft?"

Instead of answering, the elder Holmes thrust the letter in front of the detective's face, eyes now staring out the window of the flat. It took a moment for Sherlock's vision to adjust to the words scrawled in familiar handwriting on the dirty, white paper. A loud clatter disturbed the silence of the room as Sherlock dropped one of his crutches to whip the letter out of his brother's fingers.

Collapsing onto the leather sofa as Mycroft lowered himself unsteadily into Sherlock's armchair, the detective stroked his fingers over his name, written with John's oddly neat script. He tore open the envelope as if it were his very first Christmas present, and carefully extracted the paper inside. Placing the torn envelope beside him, Sherlock unfolded the letter as if it were made of the finest porcelain.

Instead of being stark white, the paper was a little dingy, and one edge was tinged red. Sherlock's mind rapidly picked up that John's hand had obviously been trembling when he'd written, as most of the letters showed signs that the pen writing them had shaken. There was a single place, near where the doctor's signature was splayed across the page, where a drop of salty moisture had dried. It took Sherlock a second longer than normal to realize that John must have been crying when he'd signed his name. The lapse was probably due to the mixture of painkillers and elation running through the detective's veins.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he began to read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I have come to the conclusion that we are both complete idiots. When I get home, you are never allowed out of my sight for more than a minute, even if it means I have to follow you into every bathroom stall in London. Just putting that out there._

_Since I know you'll want to know what happened, and you obviously haven't been getting my emails, I decided to do things the old-fashioned way. Sorry if the paper's a little stained. Actually, I'm not sorry the paper was stained. Knowing you, you'll just use everything about it for your brilliant deductions. Consider it evidence, I suppose._

_In the hospital, Anthea told me that you wanted nothing to do with me, that you were disgusted and horrified by me, and refused to see me ever again. The next day they shipped me to another hospital. Once I was considered sufficiently recovered, I received deployment orders and found myself shipped to the Republic of the Congo._

_I gave up hope, but there was always the thought, in the back of my mind, that something was wrong. You can only imagine my shock when a little White Birdie popped up one night, a week ago, and told me the truth. I never should have considered, for even a second, that you would break your promise. Feel free to ridicule me to your heart's content for letting my insecurities get the better of me. Please know that it will never happen again. I'm so very sorry._

_That same White Birdie told me you thought I was dead and that, judging by your physical state, you were on your way to following me. When I get home we are going to have a very in-depth discussion about your proclivity for self-destruction. If it means I have to tear the flat apart for every sharp object or potentially addictive substance, so be it._

_The first thing you are going to do after reading this letter is make yourself a cup of tea, pour yourself a bowl of cereal, and sit down on the sofa and eat it. No ifs, ands, or buts. Then, you are going to take a nap for an hour. That should be sufficient to get your ridiculously fantastic mind back into gear so you can figure out how to bring me the hell home. Keep my tags close in the meantime. Consider them a reminder._

_Please bring me home, Sherlock._

_Yours faithfully,_

_John Watson_

He read the letter four times in order to commit it to memory, the hand that had fisted around John's tags pressed against his mouth. Once finished with tucking a visual copy of the letter in the John section of his Mind Palace, he dragged himself to his feet and lurched his way into the kitchen to follow his doctor's instructions. In this instance, even with thousands of miles between them, John was right. It was high time he stopped wallowing in anguish and got himself back into gear.

Mycroft stared, eyebrows rising until they nearly disappeared, as Sherlock plonked his tea mug on the coffee table and proceeded to savage a full bowl of cereal as if he'd never seen food before. There was a determined look on the detective's face that made the elder Holmes just a little uneasy. Clearing his throat for attention, Mycroft adjusted his posture until he was sitting on the edge of his seat. Sherlock fixed him with an 'I-told-you-so' glare while he chewed smugly.

"I am sorry, Sherlock."

If he'd been a normal man, the detective probably would have spit his cereal across the whole room. As it was, he merely made a spectacular choking sound before managing to swallow painfully and composing himself again. Staring with that calculating gaze, Sherlock seemed to be cataloguing every minute detail of his brother's expression.

Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out slowly, "I will be returning to work soon and shall begin inquiring after Dr. Watson as soon as I am in the office. I do not know how this happened, but I am going to get to the bottom of it."

"Bring me your files. Everything. Every personnel file, every spy transmission transcript, every bloody thing your stupid secretary ever touched." Venomous anger turned Sherlock's deep voice nearly an octave lower. "Originals or copies, I don't care, but I am going through every inch of paperwork you have until I get answers."

Nodding, the elder Holmes folded his hands together between his knees, "I will email them to you. All of them."

Very quietly, so softly Mycroft couldn't even be sure he'd actually heard it, Sherlock said, "Thank you."

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

After three days of tearing through the twisted flotsam of Mycroft's personal spy network, Sherlock was ready to rip his hair from his scalp. Even the fact that Anthea had been trussed up in an undisclosed location where she would be 'vigorously questioned' (as Mycroft loftily put it) couldn't temper down the intense feeling he was missing something vital. No matter where he looked, he couldn't find a trace of John.

It was as if someone had erased the doctor from existence since the incident at the Holmes' Estate. There was no death certificate, no deployment orders, and no evidence what-so-ever of Captain Dr. John H. Watson anywhere. Sherlock even managed to hack into the satellite phones of four bases in the African continent before Mycroft showed up at his door looking decidedly perturbed.

All the paperwork was in order, but John wasn't mentioned on any of it. The frustration alone was driving Sherlock absolutely batty. By extension, it was also driving Mycroft batty. Both brothers had actually been spending quite a few hours together, poring over documents, files, and photos.

To Mycroft's increasing surprise, even though Sherlock was obsessively focused on what he called 'the Case of the Missing Watson', the younger man still remembered to eat and nap at somewhat regular intervals. About every sixth hour, Sherlock would glance at the clock and press a finger to the dog tags hidden beneath his shirt, then walk into the kitchen and find something to eat. Every twenty-third hour, the detective would take out the tags, hold them in his fist, and lay down on the sofa for an hour's nap.

Astounded, Mycroft pilfered the letter from his brother's violin case and perused it with single-minded intensity. While some of it didn't make sense (What did monochromatic fowl have to do with anything?), Mycroft was emotionally aware enough to read between the lines. He was also acutely attuned to all of his brother's eccentricities, which made the deductions falling into line in his head rather surprising. He'd always known that Sherlock and John were severely dependent on one another, but Mycroft had never considered how deeply either man's feelings might reach.

While Sherlock slept, with his brow furrowed deeply and John's dog tags gripped tightly in his palm, Mycroft considered his brother quietly. When he'd arrived at the manor and seen the corpses of Irene Adler and Russell splayed on the floor, he'd been furious with his younger sibling. However, seeing Sherlock frantically screaming John's name as the doctor lay stone still on the floor had wiped away the anger.

Truly, he hadn't expected Sherlock to decline so spectacularly when he'd relayed Anthea's news that John had not survived. He never wanted to see that look of pure, wild-eyed, excruciating pain on his brother's face again. Not since a very trying time, during their school days, had Mycroft seen his brother look so totally lost as he did when it sank in that John was gone forever. No further proof than that look had been needed for Mycroft to see into his brother's carefully guarded and hidden heart.

Now he held a bit of John Watson's loyal, steady heart in his hands. It was a strange feeling, to see the depth of faith the doctor held in his brother, and see the pain and distress within the lines of the letters. Since John had become Sherlock's friend, Mycroft had found himself not having to worry as often about his younger brother. John was like a sedative to Sherlock, calming and grounding even when it seemed like the detective's mind was seconds away from tearing itself apart.

As silently as he could, Mycroft returned the letter to its coveted place beside the broken bow of Sherlock's well-used Stradivarius. He pressed a gentle hand to Sherlock's shoulder as he made his way out of the flat. A sound behind him caused him to pause at the door, breath catching in his throat.

Though thick with sleep, Sherlock's voice was still small and broken, "John? Don't go."

For a short moment, the Ice Man allowed himself to melt. Gently he placed a blanket over his slumbering little brother, and switched off the light in the living room. Snatching up his umbrella, Mycroft swept down the stairs and out to the black sedan he'd kept on stand-by. As much as he despised legwork, Mycroft would move mountains to save his dear little brother from pain. It was time to go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, still not sorry.


	19. Chapter 18

It was three months after receiving John's letter that Sherlock finally caught a break. The doctor's name and deployment order was hidden inside an encrypted file, attached to a granted request for a shipment of 'medical supplies'. Clever, but not clever enough for a determined consulting detective. He actually called Mycroft, nearly deafening his brother in his elation.

Always the killjoy, Mycroft demanded the information, and told his little brother that things were far more complicated than they had originally believed. Getting John home wasn't going to be as easy as putting the man on a plane, and there was still someone from Moriarty's network secreted away somewhere in Mycroft's employ. Whoever it was, they obviously had some sort of access to the government and military databases. If they found out about John returning home, they might try something drastic.

For the first time, in many years, Sherlock could hear anger and frustration in his brother's voice. Things were obviously not going well at M Holmes HQ. Biting back a snarky remark, Sherlock offered to help out. A long silence followed, and then Mycroft flatly refused.

"While I appreciate your kindness, brother dear, I fear this is not something I can expose you to. Right now this has become very personal to me. Perhaps I will accept your help at a later time."

Sherlock let out a low hum of disappointment, but did not press further. "You will, of course, contact me as soon as you can get John back?"

"Of course. In the meantime, Sherlock, try tidying up the flat a bit? I'm sure John would be ecstatic about it."

Hanging up without even saying goodbye, the detective glanced around him at the papers and photos strewn about. A smirk graced his lips as he began to slowly stack everything back into the boxes Mycroft had delivered them in. He didn't bother sorting anything. What was the point of having interns, if not for re-filing?

Oh, bloody hell, he was going to have to go food shopping wasn't he? Granted, he did need milk, but if John was coming home he was going to need more to live on than that. What the… Was he really thinking about this? What the hell was wrong with him? Snap the fuck out of this, Sherlock; this is not how a genius consulting detective behaves. Just go ask Mrs. Hudson to do the shopping; she loves taking care of her 'boys'.

Taking John's letter out of the violin case and re-reading it also wasn't something Sherlock normally would have done. He had a very good visual copy in his Mind Palace, but something about not feeling the paper in his hands felt wrong. Something about holding something John had touched, had worked on, made it more special.

He hadn't written back, being more focused on figuring out to bring his doctor home. At first it had bothered him that he hadn't thought to return the favor, but the more he thought about it, the less of a good use of time it sounded. John already knew Sherlock would be working doggedly to bring him home. The doctor wouldn't be offended at not hearing back from him. Or at least, that's what he hoped.

Not that John had written to him since. Not even the merest byte of an email. If the person who was trying to keep them apart really was working undercover as one of Mycroft's employees, then that person had a very good knowledge of computers. He wondered how long this fly in the ointment had been hacking into his emails or the websites. How far did the web spread?

His phone beeped loudly:

**Congo Express to Heathrow.**

**Tomorrow. 1630.**

**-MH**

Like he'd suddenly transformed into a small child, Sherlock leapt into the air and shouted with joy. Two days. Two days and John would be home again. Well, two days and 16 and a half hours anyway.

He careened down the stairs, shouting for his landlady, when his mobile beeped again:

**Club now sos**

Sherlock stared at the message, hand shaking ever so slightly. There was no signature on the text, but the number definitely belonged to his brother. Mycroft did not send messages like that unless there was something disastrously wrong. While he bit his lip, trying to think of what he might need to do, Mrs. Hudson toddled out from her flat and cooed at him for his attention.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, phone Lestrade and tell him to meet me at the Diogenes Club as soon as possible."

"What, you're leaving?"

"Yes! Lestrade! Call! Now!"

The old woman scurried her way back into her flat while Sherlock whipped on his coat and scarf, practically leaping out the door. He didn't bother texting back; it wouldn't serve any sort of purpose. Mycroft probably didn't even have his phone now.

Leaping into the first cab that stopped, Sherlock reached up beneath his scarf to press John's tags into his skin. It was surprising how much he missed having his steady army doctor at his side during a dangerous operation. Damn! He should have grabbed the Browning! How could he be so stupid?

Sherlock took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. The gun wouldn't matter in the long run, if only because Lestrade and his team would arrive armed and dangerous. Well, armed at any rate. Detective Inspector or not, Lestrade wasn't exactly a crack shot; Dartmoor had proved that. Although, that could have been attributed to the aerated hallucinogen surrounding them at the time. Or fear. But then again, John had been exposed to both, and he'd planted two perfect shots into that poor dog. Ok, this train of thought was not helping. You're on your own for this one, Sherlock, get it together.

The taxi ride was interminable, but he had the happy honor to still beat Lestrade and his minions by a full 5 minutes. He couldn't help the smug smile that spread across his face. Instead of grumbling at him for being arrogant, Lestrade just stared as if he'd never seen the consulting detective before.

"Last time I saw you, Holmes, you looked like 6 kinds of hell." The DI managed to look confused and suspicious all at once.

"Yes, well," Sherlock rolled his head on his neck, letting the bones crack, "the last time you saw me I was in hell. This, however, is not the time to explain what is apparently a miraculous transformation according to your expression. The game is on, Lestrade, and there is work to be done!"

Without looking back to see if anyone was following, Sherlock strode into the front door of the Diogenes Club. He ignored the old men sitting around like decorations and shoved open the door to his brother's office. No sign of Mycroft, but the consulting detective observed small clues of a struggle. Including his brother's umbrella laying with the handle pointing towards a certain wall.

"Lestrade, put your useless minions to work helping me find out where the switch is for the wall."

"Why would the wall have a switch?"

"Have you met my brother?" Sherlock huffed indignantly, "He's got secret entrances and exits all over this place." He tugged and twisted a light fixture, frowning when it didn't budge. "If you think I'm dramatic, you should see Mycroft when he's trying to be particularly impressive."

For more than an hour they tested and prodded every piece of décor and furniture in the room. Sherlock began to get particularly insulting about thirty minutes in, but no one else could hear the angry, disparaging commentary he was berating himself with inside his mind. It was time for drastic measures; the detective picked up his brother's umbrella and sank into the chair behind the desk. After yelling at everyone to kindly shut the hell up (and telling Anderson to leave the room), he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Opening his eyes, he tried to picture the situation from Mycroft's point of view.

Judging by the paperwork neatly lined up on the desk, the elder Holmes had just finished pinpointing John's exact location with satellite still photos and supply records. The laptop on the corner of the desk showed flight times and seating openings. Someone had ripped off a corner of a piece of blank paper. All this lead Sherlock to the conclusion that Mycroft had just finished the preparations for bringing John home. He presumed that his brother tore the paper and sent his new secretary (who Sherlock had yet to meet) to put everything in order.

Someone must have come in afterwards, probably with a weapon of some kind, most likely a gun, and threatened Mycroft. Whoever it was had the elder Holmes get up and walk towards the wall. Sherlock stood and began walking slowly towards where he'd found the umbrella lying on the floor. There was nothing on the carpet to suggest a switch. The detective stomped on the ground, whacked it with the bottom and handle of the umbrella, and had no luck whatsoever finding out how to open the wall.

Behind him, the office door opened and Sally Donovan shouted, "Hands up!"

"For the love of," Sherlock mumbled, turning around.

Standing in the doorway, hands raised, was a frankly beautiful woman with pale skin and ebony colored hair braided over one shoulder. She wore an expensive black blazer with a matching pencil skirt, and a red silk blouse peeked out of her jacket collar. About six feet in height, she towered over Sergeant Donovan, probably due to the ruby, four-inch heels she was wearing. Thin, but curvy, the woman held herself with the same nonchalant air that all Mycroft's secretaries managed.

"Forget her, Donovan, she's just Mycroft's secretary." Sherlock turned back to the wall, then spun around again and practically shoved himself into the secretary's face. "How does the wall open?"

Her high-cheek boned face leaned back when he shoved himself into her personal space, but she didn't move an inch otherwise. Her voice was low and calm despite the surprise in the sepia-colored eyes behind her black, wire-frame glasses, "I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock pointed imperiously behind him, "The wall. How. Does. It. Open?"

"There's a small button beneath the carpet."

"Where?"

Blowing a lock of hair out of her face, the secretary strode across the room. The detective kept his all-seeing eyes trained on her, and caught the slightest lift of the toe of her right shoe as its heel sunk a centimeter deeper into the carpet than usual. A small creak was all that alerted the room as the wall slid open on hidden hinges. As her heel was about the same width as the tip of Mycroft's umbrella, Sherlock realized why he hadn't been able to open the wall by whacking indiscriminately at the floor.

"Pompous, insufferable," Sherlock continued to mumble insults at his brother while poking his head into the dark corridor, glancing at the disturbances in the dust. At least five people had entered the hall, one of which was female, according to the high-heeled shoe marks.

Two of the men were wearing heavy combat boots, so they were either bodyguards or soldiers. The other two men were wearing the same sort of loafers every businessman seemed to own. One of them had to be Mycroft. Was the female the secretary? Sherlock glanced at the marks again, then at the secretary's feet, then back at the marks. Since the secretary wore at least a women's size eleven, she obviously wasn't part of the abduction.

"Someone give me a torch, I'm going down there." Holding out a hand, Sherlock kept his eyes on the dark interior of the building, listening for any sound.

A red-nailed hand stretched past him to the side of the wall, "You could just flick the switch."

Sherlock grabbed her hand and thrust it away, "I'd like to not alert everyone and their mother to the fact that I'm following them!" He rounded on the secretary with an angry glare. "It will be easier to track them if they don't already know where I am!"

When it came to choosing secretaries, sometimes Sherlock had to give his brother a little bit of credit. This woman didn't even flinch under the detective's best glare of hatred. Refocusing his attention, Sherlock allowed the deductions to flow through his mind as he gave her an intense once-over.

Expensive suit, Vera Wang original, with a 100% real silk blouse made by the same designer. Shoes are Jimmy Choo originals, might have been custom colored to match her blouse. Ambidextrous (surprising) and extremely near-sighted (also surprising), probably sleeps in the center of her bed. She was the first secretary Mycroft ever had who wore glasses. Owns one, no two, two cats. Sheer hose on her legs with small animal hairs caught around the ankles when the cats rub up against her. One black and one calico. Highly intelligent, obviously, and well-versed in the latest technology. She was probably one of Mycroft's IT people before her promotion. Unmarried.

"Useful as you might be as a secretary, as a spy you would be utterly useless. Especially in those ridiculous heels." Sherlock didn't even bother ripping her to shreds with his acerbic deductions. She'd probably be fired soon anyway.

"More useful then you think, I imagine." Again that perfectly manicured hand thrust itself before his eyes. Clutched in it was her Smartphone, and on the display was a stationary red spot in what appeared to be a blueprint. "The red dot is Mr. Holmes, Sir. We have several GPS locators on him at all times. Since his phone is no longer operational, the secondary locator has gone on-line."

The detective paused for a long moment, "You're telling me that you can locate him exactly."

"Yes, Sir. The program is accurate within 10 centimeters. I developed it myself."

Allowing a small smile of gratitude to grace his lips, Sherlock took the phone from her hand and studied it. "Can you program it to lead me down there?"

"Not at the moment. I would need a laptop at the very least. However, if you will allow, Sir, I could accompany you into the tunnels. I know them backwards, forwards, and every way in-between."

"Is that so?" Tapping her mobile against his palm, Sherlock handed it back over to her. "I'll go first, you will tell me where to go. Lestrade, send about half your men around the rear of the building to keep an eye out. We've got at least 4 suspects in there somewhere. By the way," the detective whirled around again until he was face to face with the secretary, "what's your name?"

"They call me 'Maureen'."

Sherlock snorted, "It will do, I suppose. Lestrade make sure you and the rest of your team stay here to cover this exit." A torch was thrust into one of his hands and one of the officers handed him a spare pistol. Sherlock frowned at the weapon and handed it to the secretary, who thrust it into the waistband of her skirt at her back. "With any luck I will be able to get the body guards to chase me back down this way and your men can stop them here."

"You should take a radio with you." The DI shoved a handheld into the detective's pocket. "At least then you can give us some bloody warning."

Huffing dismissively, Sherlock turned away and started slinking into the dark hall, followed by the softest of taps from the secretary's shoes. He really wished she'd had the forethought to remove them as he wasn't too trusting of the tunnel's acoustics. It couldn't be helped though, so he simply shot her an irritated glance that she probably couldn't even see and continued into the inky darkness.

One point in her favor was that she didn't try to carry on any unnecessary conversation. Except for the occasional soft tap of a sole against concrete (cement?), she didn't make any noise at all. Whenever he came to a juncture, she would consult her phone briefly and whisper a direction uncomfortably close to his ear. Instead of snapping at her about it, Sherlock decided to tolerate it as a necessary annoyance. He would not give his brother's kidnappers the satisfaction of even the slightest bit of warning.

"There's a door up ahead," she closed her hand around his elbow, making him pause, "about twenty more steps in front of us on the left. It's the last room before the tunnel out of the building. Mr. Holmes is in there."

Turning off his light, in lieu of verbally acknowledging her, Sherlock moved achingly slowly towards the door, listening hard. Excepting the soft tap of heels against the ground, all he could make out was the softest murmur of male voices. He recognized Mycroft's cadence right away, he'd been exposed to it in nearly every form for his entire life. The other voice puzzled him; it was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

Pressing an ear against the door as silently as possible, he tried to listen in on the conversation. Unfortunately the door was made of a sound-dampening material, or at least it was insulated with it, so he couldn't make out any more than the rumble of voices. Steeling himself, Sherlock eased the door open a few millimeters, keeping his ears open more than his eyes.

Mycroft was apparently just winding down a long tirade, "so it wasn't only for the money I assume, considering how well off you are now."

The chuckle that followed was unexpected, terrifying, and set Sherlock's brain hurtling into chaos. "Are you finished doing that thing you and your annoying brother do? I mean, I thought it was bad during bloody university, but I didn't realize it was genetic."

Shock, and shock alone, made Sherlock throw the door open and stare into the suddenly silent room. He took in the positions of the two very large thugs posted at either side of the exit door, his brother tied to a chair, a familiar woman seated behind a desk with a laptop open in front of her, and the object of his ire standing too close to Mycroft for comfort. Fury making every part of his body shake, the detective stalked forward, one hand pointing directly at the man beside his brother.

"Where the bloody hell do you get off taking my brother hostage, Sebastian?"


	20. Chapter 19

Seeing Sebastian Wilkes in an exact replica of Moriarty's signature Westwood suit struck Sherlock dumber than a mentally retarded sloth with a head injury and a side of mercury poisoning. The image simply did not compute. All of the detective's considerable genius seemed to have leaked out of his brain, and all he could do was stare as he waited for an explanation.

No plan or amount of research could have prepared Sherlock for this kind of utter astonishment. He had seen many impossible things in the past few weeks, but the completely bewildering sight of that familiar face in that familiar suit baffled him to the point of speechlessness. For the first time in his 30-plus year life, Sherlock was totally at sea.

"Ah, Holmes. Wonderful of you to join us." Sebastian's smile was cold and dead, bereft of any amiability.

The two bodyguards moved forward in tandem, one subduing the detective with a well-aimed kick to the stomach and sock to the jaw. While Sherlock tried to regain his vision and breath, a soft yelp from somewhere to the rear alerted him the secretary had been caught by the second thug. Not that he felt guilty at all, just angry she'd gotten snagged before she could either fire a shot or run back to Lestrade.

Within minutes, Sherlock found himself and the secretary bound in their own chairs lined up on Mycroft's left. Testing the ropes around his torso, the detective was dismayed to discover the bodyguards were actually rather adept at knot tying. Too bad his pocket knife was hidden in the inside pocket of his coat. Not that it could have really made much progress against the nylon ropes; damned thing was dull but he might have at least been able to loosen the knots.

"It's really too bad that things have to end this way." Seb really did sound disappointed. "I mean, not even Moriarty expected you to fake your death."

Glancing to his right, Sherlock took in the bored mask his brother was still managing to hold in place. The tenseness of Mycroft's jaw, and the smallest wrinkle of his brow, revealed the politician was not as relaxed as he seemed. Since his brother didn't seem visibly hurt, Sherlock turned his attention to the secretary on his left.

"Mind you," Seb continued talking, leaning back against the single table in the room with his arms crossed, "Moriarty was madder than a hatter. Only met him once, but let me tell you, I was glad it wasn't me he was obsessed with."

Maureen seemed none the worse for wear. If anything she seemed even icier than Mycroft. There was no tenseness in her jaw or lines in her brow to portray any evidence of worry or fear. At some point she had refreshed her coral lipstick, probably when Sherlock had been sneaking into the room. She was watching the woman still typing away at a laptop behind Sebastian, instead of the room at large.

A hard grip closed around his jaw and Sebastian forced his face back to center. "You should really pay attention when I'm talking to you."

"Stop being boring and I will."

The banker struck him hard across the face with the back of his closed fist, the heavy watch on his wrist slicing into Sherlock's jaw. The detective coughed, spitting blood onto the floor, and tested his teeth with his tongue. His incisors were loose, but eventually (barring any other facial blows) would tighten up again.

"Never could keep your mouth shut. I haven't gotten this much pleasure out of beating someone since university." The toothy grin Sebastian bared made Sherlock want to throw up. Memories, which he really thought he'd deleted, flooded into the detective's mind unbidden. "Remember the last day of classes all those years ago? That fabulous house party?"

Mycroft butted in, his voice tight with anger, "Now that I know who to blame for that unfortunate incident, rest assured Mr. Wilkes, you will never see the light of day again."

Nodding at one of the guards, Sebastian stepped back and grinned again as the butt of a hefty Desert Eagle thudded dully into the side of Mycroft's head. Sherlock's brother was now out for the count, and the detective had to exert a hefty amount of control over his facial expression not to reveal his alarm. It was especially hard when blood began to drip down the side of Mycroft's lax face.

"I don't actually remember much of that party, Seb." Sherlock spoke as if Mycroft's interruption had never occurred. "It's probably because of the concussion your friends decided to give me."

"Actually it's probably because we spiked your morphine with LSD." That grin was getting really obnoxious. "Besides, we beat you unconscious because you started rambling like a loon. None of us knew the drugs would completely dissolve what little barrier you had between your brain and mouth."

Sherlock sniffed dismissively, "You have no idea. For example, if I were to unleash my full mental powers against you right now, I could probably get you to release the three of us and cut your losses."

No, seriously, that grin was beyond creepy; Moriarty's expressions had at least been entertaining. It was the same grin that Sebastian had in his university days, honed when the dastardliest deed he and his friends got up to was stealing the answers to exams from a teacher's office. "I don't doubt it. That's why I found the perfect solution to keeping you still. Kate?"

As soon as Sebastian said the computer girl's name, Sherlock recognized her as Irene Adler's secretary. The detective had to fight to keep an irritated sigh from forcing its way out of his throat. Closing his eyes, Sherlock shook his head in exasperation while Kate sauntered over with the laptop clutched in her hands.

Kneeling in front of the bound detective, Kate held the laptop in her blue-nailed hands, peering up at Sebastian as if he was her whole world. Sherlock wanted to gag, especially when the banker stroked her head as if she was his favorite pet. He kept his face completely stoic, refusing to allow Sebastian the satisfaction of seeing him display any emotion whatsoever.

"Show Sherlock our little surprise, Kate."

With a flick of her well-manicured finger across the track pad, Kate removed the screensaver, revealing a satellite photo of an airstrip in a jungle. Sherlock's heart immediately sank, but he still managed to keep his visage emotionless. A few more flicks of that finger and Kate pulled up a short slideshow of satellite images. After the airstrip was a close-up of a Congo Express plane, which was followed by another close-up of the bomb carefully camouflaged inside the left engine of the plane. The last picture was of a flight manifest, the camera zoomed in on the name 'J. H. Watson M.D., Capt. 5NUF' written in barely legible handwriting.

"The best part is that while he's on the plane, he'll get the news of your untimely demise." Kate's eyes sparkled with morbid glee.

Sherlock fought to keep his breathing completely steady, feeling the dog tags around his neck press against his flesh with every expansion of his lungs. Yes, John very well might be on that plane tomorrow, but the doctor would survive, of that Sherlock had no doubt. The man came back from the dead at least once, and after the detective's own personal conversation with John's personal supernatural being, he had no doubt that Captain John Hamish Watson M.D. would do it again if only to avenge Sherlock's demise. Not that the world's only consulting detective was planning on dying any time soon. There was no way he was going to give Sebastian Wilkes, of all people, the satisfaction of seeing him dead.

"Look how speechless he is, Sebby!" Kate purred and rubbed her cheek against Sebastian's hip.

Snapping the laptop shut, Sebastian replaced the computer on the metal desk and leaned back against it. "Yes, Kate, you did well planning out the demise of Sherlock Holmes' pet doctor. As a reward, I'll let you play with Mycroft's secretary for a while."

As she dragged herself up off the floor and slid herself into Maureen's lap, Sherlock turned his attention to the two thugs who were still standing like small mountains on opposite sides of the room. The detective shut out the soft, feminine moans coming from his left, focusing on the walls guarded by both men. One was obviously guarding the door into the room, which meant it only stood to reason that the other was blocking an exit. From this far away he couldn't discern the dimensions of the rear exit, but he knew it had to be there.

"Sorry I had to knock out your obnoxious brother, but I couldn't very well have him listening in on my plan. You see, I could, potentially, make it so that you and Dr. Watson live very full, rich lives if I so chose." Marvelous; Sebastian was going to try the 'I can make you wealthy' ploy. Cliché. "If you agree to stay out of my business, I will make sure you get a steady monthly stipend. Much more then your brother could ever allow you, and far more than you're likely to get when your parents shuffle off this mortal coil."

"Save it, Seb," Sherlock bit out, "neither John nor I would ever agree to your terms."

The banker made that sickening grin again, "Ah, you didn't let me finish. I was going to offer you a job if you didn't want to take the money."

"And how would you pay me for this job considering money isn't really a concern of mine?"

"Simple. You do as I say, and I don't torture John Watson for the rest of his life."

Okay, that was a bit cleverer of a plan. Since Sebastian had probably gotten all the information he could from Irene, Kate, Russell, and possibly Jim Moriarty himself, the banker knew John was the one weakness he could truly exploit. Especially after the way Sherlock had broken down at his friend's supposed 'death'. If Sebastian had John, then he held the detective's personal self destruct mechanism in his hands.

"How exactly do you plan to hold a man like John, a soldier, hostage long enough to torture him?"

Oh for the love of all that is good and just, did Seb really have to grin like that every time? It was like staring at some sort of cartoon villain! All he was missing was the handlebar moustache and cape! "You're already my hostage, of course. Poor Dr. Watson is so painfully loyal he'll give up without a whimper to set you free!"

Damn, the man had a point, not to mention both his and John's numbers. If John thought for a moment that sacrificing his own life would save Sherlock even a millisecond of pain, the doctor would not hesitate. John's selflessness was evident in everything he did, every moment he spent working himself to death either following Sherlock around London at breakneck speeds, or powering through patients in a hospital A & E for hours on end. Dr. Watson was all about putting other people before himself.

"Seems you've thought of everything, Sebastian. What about Mycroft?"

"I have other plans for your brother, Holmes. Put him out of your mind. You'll never see him again after this anyway." Sebastian turned his eyes to Kate's slightly bowed back. "Kate, are you planning on choking that woman with your tongue or are we going to get on with this?"

Maureen shook herself a bit, and Kate dropped to the floor like a wet sack of rice, bloody foam frothing out her mouth. Sherlock and Sebastian both stared at the lifeless woman splayed out on the floor, dumbfounded. Their eyes met for a moment, and then both men turned their attention back to Mycroft's secretary. Light flared off her glass lenses as she licked her lips with a self-satisfied smirk.

"What the bloody hell? Kate?" Sebastian nudged the leg of the broken doll at his feet with a toe.

Sherlock threw his eyes over the corpse, deducing at lightning speed. "Poisoned. She's dead, Seb."

"Some girls just can't hold their strychnine." Maureen's voice was smug, and something about it made Sherlock's spine tingle from the base of his neck to the end of his tailbone.

Achingly slowly, the detective turned his head to stare at the secretary sitting beside him. Even with nylon ropes wrapped tightly around her, and her arms bound behind her back, she sat as primly and proudly as any princess on a throne. She crossed her legs at the ankles, and turned her head to look over into Sherlock's eyes.

Fathomless as the void of space, the pupils of her eyes had all but swallowed their sepia irises. Burning deep within those shadowy orbs was a silvery, eldritch symbol that Sherlock was becoming far too familiar with. He couldn't help the gleeful twitch that turned his pale mouth into a vicious smirk.

The sound of metal being rammed into made everyone turn their eyes to the second bodyguard who stood against the wall. A huge dent had appeared at the man's back, and the other guard moved swiftly to Sebastian's side. Something struck another blow against the wall and the metal contorted further. Both guards held up their weapons tentatively, probably afraid to fire a shot at the metal wall, lest it ricochet and hit their charge.

With a cacophonous crash the hidden door of the wall tumbled open to reveal the sturdy, slightly twisted frame of a man holding a heavy looking pistol. Sliding his eyes over the figure, Sherlock detected a dislocated shoulder, several knife wounds, at least one bullet wound, and a severely sprained ankle. The man wore military jungle fatigues, which seemed to be splotched liberally with sticky, wet bloodstains.

Pausing for less than a second in the dark doorway, the figure discharged two perfectly aimed bullets into the heads of both of Sebastian's guards. Looking beyond the man, into the corridor, Sherlock could see a line of no less than six more men lying prone on the floor, all practically mutilated. Those same men wore garb similar to Sebastian's other guards, and their blood was rapidly flooding the exit hallway.

All of the air went out of Sherlock's lungs as the figure limped into the light of the room. Battered and bruised, looking far too thin, John Watson leaned heavily on his uninjured left leg, his faithful Browning gripped in his non-dominant hand. As wounded and wrecked as the doctor looked, the detective thought John had never looked more menacing.

"Impossible!" Sebastian shouted.

John blew out a gusty sigh, the muscle of his jaw visibly tightening in his cheek, and growled in a rough voice, "My, what an original outburst. You know, I'm getting really tired of being constantly underestimated." He glanced over 'Maureen' and then gazed into Sherlock's wide blue eyes. His voice took on a softer cast, "You alright?"

Unable to form a coherent word, Sherlock simply smirked and nodded. John returned the smirk, and then moved his gaze back to Sebastian. Fury etched itself into the doctor's face as he limped further into the room, pistol aimed right between the banker's eyes.

"He punched me in the jaw." Sherlock blurted suddenly.

John's eyes widened as he glanced over the spectacular bruise that had formed on his friend's jaw. No further hesitation necessary. The doctor moved like lightning, the barrel of his Browning completely dislocating Sebastian's jaw with vicious force. Even though it hurt the bruise, Sherlock smiled tightly in satisfaction as Sebastian passed out from the pain.

Beside him, the deity in disguise shrugged off her ropes as a snake might slough its skin. She stood and shook her tresses from their braid, stalking forward down into the exit corridor. "I'll take care of your mess, Jonathan, dear. Truss up that pathetic excuse for a human and then take Sherlock and his brother back to the main lobby of the club."

Sticking his gun into his waistband, John lifted the ropes that had fallen. He huffed in annoyance, looking at his dislocated left arm, then dropped the rope back to the floor. Crouching, he pulled a service knife from his right boot and deftly cut the bounds keeping Sherlock in the chair. The knife was carefully returned, the doctor hissing as he jostled his own injured ankle.

When he stood again, John found his personal space invaded by the detective. His friend's face was as blank as ever, but those ice blue eyes held some strange brilliance that both elated and frightened the doctor. Slowly Sherlock reached up slightly trembling hands to carefully cradle John's slightly marred face.

Without breaking eye contact, the detective pressed his forehead into the doctor's and, in an oddly gently, quiet voice, breathed, "John."

A spot of warmth blossomed on Sherlock's chest as the doctor reached up and flattened his palm beneath his friend's scarf, making the hidden dog tags dig into Sherlock's sternum. John's face broke into a soft smile, "Hello."

For a long moment, both men stared into each other's eyes, their breath mingling between them. Behind them someone coughed, and they reluctantly turned to regard the woman leaning against the broken metal door. Sherlock took in a sharp breath through his nose at the suddenly clean floor of the hallway. He felt the movement of John's cheeks as the doctor's mouth stretched into a smirk.

She returned the expression fondly, "If we could save the mushy procrastination for a later time? I believe Mycroft there needs some medical attention."

There was a tug on the dog tags, the metal links of the chain pressing into the back of Sherlock's neck. Looking back into John's eyes, Sherlock detected a twinkle of playfulness in his soldier's grey orbs.

"Fancy tying up Sebastian like a pig?"

Radiant as the shining sun, and twice as wicked, the detective smiled at his doctor and immediately spun away. John shook his head fondly as he turned his attention to the elder Holmes brother. The poor politician was going to have the headache of a lifetime when he woke up. Releasing the man's bonds, John wedged his good shoulder under Mycroft's and dragged the man upwards.

At the grunt that escaped his lips, Sherlock turned a concerned face up from his task, his deft fingers attaching the banker's hands together. "Are you alright?"

Another grunt, and John huffed, "Mycroft's been at the cakes again, I wager."

The deep chuckle that bubbled up in Sherlock's long throat warmed John's insides. He watched as the detective strapped Sebastian's bound hands and feet into one large mass of knots. Task completed, Sherlock inserted himself beneath his brother's other shoulder and both he and John moved towards the rear exit."

"Don't worry about sending your little friend Gregory back here. I'll take care of these two. Mycroft, I'm sure, will have some questions for them." 'Maureen' shooed them out of the room, lifting the cell phone out of her pocket and punching in some numbers.

They trudged onwards slowly, having to pause a few times to give John's ankle a brief respite. At the sight of sunlight at the end of the tunnel, Sherlock felt a blissful smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He glanced over at his blogger, catching the man's eye when they paused to rest again.

"When we get back to the flat you are making us tea and then we are ordering Chinese."

"Sherlock," John smiled as the detective grinned even wider, "that is the most brilliant plan I think you have ever devised."


	21. Chapter 20

The sky was pitch dark with storm clouds, and rain was just beginning to tick against the cold streets, when a black cab turned the corner and pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street. A slow, deep roll of thunder was coupled with a blinding flash of forked lightning, and the doors of the cab flung open with the urgency of people trying to get under cozy cover before the torrent began. The two men, one limping slightly and one carrying a large bag of Chinese take-away, scrambled to enter the house, their calm, friendly laughter curling around the growling thunder.

Sherlock could barely contain the strange feeling of giddiness that fizzed inside his skin as he followed John's limping frame up the stairs into the flat. It wasn't usual for Sherlock to follow John but, considering the doctor's sprained ankle, the detective wasn't going to take the chance of his flatmate falling backwards down the stairs. John paused at the landing and, his eyes a deep navy in the brief flash of light from outside the house, smiled over his shoulder at the tall man behind him.

Pausing again five steps into the flat, he stared at something in the living room, and Sherlock shot a puzzled glance at the back of his friend's head. Instead of asking what was wrong, the detective sidled up beside his partner, turning his eyes to the living room. What he saw was unexpected.

'Maureen' was standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped before her stomach. She wore a casual black dress instead of a business suit, and the same red pumps they had last seen her in. Completely silent, the woman walked forward and pressed a soft kiss to John's forehead. Smiling warmly, she reached out and pulled Sherlock forward, pressing another kiss to the detective's forehead as well. The feeling made him shiver.

Her heels made no sound as she descended the stairs and slipped out the front door. Sherlock turned his own shocked gaze to meet John's confused eyes. "What just happened?"

"I think we just got congratulated on a job well done."

Both men looked at the door downstairs and then back at each other. They began to shake, eyes dancing, and burst into gales of hysterical laughter. It was so bad, Sherlock had to prop himself against the door frame in order to keep John upright when the doctor's ankle threatened to give out. Eventually, their laughter dissolved into chuckles, and then degraded again into giggles.

Wiping the happy tears from his cheeks, John rebalanced himself. "Let's eat, Sherlock. I'll start the tea if you'll set out the food."

Still fighting to control his laughter, Sherlock nodded, "Tea would be superb, John."

The sound of John puttering about the kitchen, and the smell of their favorite Chinese as Sherlock fussed in the living room, filled the void that had been gnawing inside both men. John couldn't stop grinning, and Sherlock couldn't wipe the smile from his face no matter how hard a little voice (that sounded remarkably like his father's) in his head told him it wasn't proper. Sherlock's smile widened when John tramped back into the room, two mugs clasped in his right fist, and collapsed onto the leather sofa.

Sighing deeply in contentment, John placed the mugs on the coffee table and dragged his plate of steamed dumplings over, licking his lips hungrily. He ignored his flatmate's chuckle as he tucked in, moaning in pleasure as he stuffed his mouth. Only when he heard the sound of a deep baritone groan beside him did he look up. A mug clenched in both his hands, Sherlock was in the process of taking a long swallow of tea, the detective's eyes were closed in bliss.

When Sherlock opened his eyes and locked on to the affectionate gaze of his doctor, all the tension, all the pain, every negative thing he'd been feeling seemed to leak out of him. John was home, alive - if a little worse for wear - and safe, and he had made Sherlock's tea exactly as he always had. All was right again in the detective's world.

"Welcome home, John," the detective said, almost shyly.

"Thanks for finding me, Sherlock." John reached over and gave his flatmate's knee a gentle squeeze. "Now eat your food. You look like a starved cat."

At the touch on his knee, Sherlock's mind zeroed in on the sensation of warmth, both from John's hand and somewhere inside his own stomach. He covered his discomfort by taking another sip of delicious, tannin-filled heaven. Mrs. Hudson was going to be thanked profusely for picking up milk, and Sherlock reminded himself to buy the old woman flowers or something to do just that.

Judging by the way John was ravenously shoving dumplings down his gullet, he hadn't eaten very well in a long time. Sherlock was eating much slower, afraid to make himself sick. John had always warned him not to binge.

"You're going to make yourself ill."

Letting out a soft snort, John swallowed mightily. "It's a reaction to all the energy I used up coming to save your ass." The doctor smothered his cheese wontons in mustard and sucked them down. "She found me as soon as my orders were sent to return home. I was so happy I nearly passed out. When I got my flight papers, She dropped by again and told me that there was going to be a change in plans. Instead of coming on the Congo Express tomorrow, I got stuffed onto a Cargo plane bound for the American Air force base outside of Cambridge. I hitched a ride from there to the train station, and hopped the first train to London. Then, I ran from the station to the Club, and I assume you know the rest."

As John tucked back into his food, Sherlock turned his body until he was leaning against the arm of the sofa. "Am I correct in deducing you haven't eaten since you left Africa?"

"Close." A huge gulp of tea helped John swallow down the egg roll he had shoved, almost whole, into his mouth. "I haven't eaten since two days before. We got bombarded with refugees." He fell silent, closing his slate blue eyes as if pained. "I thought Afghanistan was hell, but that place?"

It physically hurt Sherlock to hear the break in John's voice. "I'm sorry you were exiled there."

Rubbing his hands over his face, John let out a long sigh. The doctor looked so exhausted suddenly, the detective worried the man would simply pitch forward and start snoring into the Orange Chicken. Sherlock began shuffling the food over to his side of the table, trying to prevent just such a travesty. John chuckled wearily and groaned, lifting his bandaged ankle up onto the table.

"Did you sprain it on the first or the second kick to the door?"

The doctor gave a curious look over at his friend before replying, "Does it matter?"

"Not really. Just curious." Sherlock reached out and lifted the pant leg obscuring his view of the ace bandage around John's ankle.

After a few moments of silent study, the detective glanced back over his shoulder in askance. John's cornflower blue eyes held such fond affection that Sherlock actually felt a blush rise in his cheeks. Unable to keep eye contact, the detective turned his eyes back to studying the bandage as John let out a soft chuckle.

Before he could scathingly object, Sherlock heard John lean forward and felt the doctor tousle his curls while stating, "I hopped the fence to get into the rear of the Diogenes Club. Let's just say I didn't exactly stick my landing."

When John leaned back again, his fingers sliding out of Sherlock's satin hair, the detective couldn't help the soft sound of disappointment that escaped his throat. Sherlock expected his doctor to sputter in that awkward (but oh so endearing) way which usually occurred when he was uncomfortable. Instead, the detective felt the lightest of touches tracing the metal links along the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine, and was replaced half-way down his back by a feeling of surprise when John's hand closed over his shoulder.

Applying gentle pressure, John guided Sherlock to lean back until the detective's head rested on his thigh. He waited a long moment to see if there were any objections, and when none were forthcoming, John buried his hand back into Sherlock's dark mop of hair.

Completely taken aback, Sherlock was, at first, completely frozen in place by the feeling. Physical touches were normally unwelcome to the detective. His family hadn't been the hugging type, and his years in school and university had taught him to abhor the contact of other people. This was different. It wasn't restraining, or painful; it didn't feel frightening.

Tentatively, the detective laid a hand against his doctor's leg, just shy of where his cheek pressed into the camouflage material. John sighed in pure contentment, and Sherlock heard his head loll against the sofa back. Even though he knew John would get a sore neck if the man fell asleep in that position, the detective was loathe to move with John's fingers still caressing his scalp.

Whether it was an hour that past, or simply ten minutes, Sherlock eventually turned until he could look up into John's face. The doctor dragged his heavy head up until he could look down into the clear, light eyes of his companion. Those same eyes fluttered closed when John stroked his thumb reverently over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone and down the detective's swan-like neck.

"You should go to bed, John. You'll be stiff tomorrow from your injuries. No need to give your neck an additional crick." Sherlock's eyes opened slowly when he finished speaking, his voice slightly husky.

A huffing laugh escaped John's lips, "My neck appreciates your concern. I'm taking a shower first. I feel absolutely horrid."

Neither man made any move to get up. Sherlock found his usually racing mind felt rather placid laying there, with the backs of John's fingers lazily stroking the line of his pale throat. If John's soft, dream-like expression was anything to go by, he found nothing wrong with their current situation either.

It fell to John to be his usual, caring self, "Come on, you, neither of us is going to wake up without neck pains if we don't move. Would you like to shower before me?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock dragged himself up into a sitting position, "Leave the food and mugs. We can clean tomorrow."

Behind him, John chuckled, then groaned again when he moved his ankle back to the floor. The detective had to help drag his doctor off the sofa, faltering a little at just how solidly heavy John was, even after losing at least two stone in weight. A rueful grimace passed over the doctor's features as he regained his balance and limped towards the stairs.

.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Sherlock had been sitting in the dark living room for hours, listening to the far off creak of mattress springs. Somewhere upstairs, John was tossing and turning a bit in his sleep. The detective didn't want to sleep, unlike his weary doctor. If asked, he would probably just say it was adrenaline left over from the day's activities. In truth, he was worried that if he closed his eyes for even a moment, everything would be over (a thought of such irrationality he was embarrassed to admit that he thought it, even to himself).

Letting his emotions out of their little Mind Palace cupboard, he recognized the feeling of terror in regards to the thought of waking and finding John gone. It was such a pervasive, all-encompassing feeling it was bordering on panic. All he wanted was to delete it forever, or at least overwrite it with that wonderful calmness he'd felt with John's fingers sliding through his hair and along his skin.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling on the strands and letting the pain push the emotion into the background. All it did was give him a minor headache. A soft snarl of irritation slipped out of his mouth, immediately cutting off at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

John's solid silhouette, sans sling, appeared in the moonlight as he trudged across the floor towards the kitchen. The detective remained perfectly still, until he caught the slight glitter of tear tracks on John's dear face. Quietly he rose and crossed the room, reaching out to snatch his doctor's wrist as the silent man passed.

"Christ!" John hissed loudly, his whole body tensing into battle-mode.

"Sorry." Sherlock dropped the wrist in his grip as if it were on fire.

After regaining his breath for a few moments (and surreptitiously wiping the tears from his cheeks under the guise of rubbing his eyes), the doctor squinted up at his friend, "What are you still doing up?"

"I could ask you the same question, John. You should be sleeping." When the only answer Sherlock received to such a statement was John licking his lips, the detective softened. "Nightmares?"

A humorless laugh left John's mouth, and the sound actually hurt the detective inside. "Can't get round you, can I, Sherlock?"

He found he couldn't help a smirk at his doctor's backwards praise. Instead of letting a snarky remark slip, though, he deliberately stepped into John's personal space, crowding as close as possible without physically touching. Truthfully, he didn't know what he was doing, but Sherlock knew that somehow John would understand. After a long second, John made a soft, almost choked noise and rested his forehead against the hollow of the detective's neck and chest.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate; his long arms wrapped around John's broad shoulders and tightened securely. Warm arms circled his thin waist, drawing him closer to his doctor. He brought a hand to the back of John's head, letting his spidery, agile fingers card through John's, surprisingly silken, sandy hair. Neither man made any sound, even when John's shoulders began to shake and Sherlock lowered his cheek against the top of the doctor's head.

With the storm abated for over an hour, the world of Baker Street was silent, except for an occasional, soft gasp of breath from the doctor. As the shakes subsided, John's muscles began to gradually go limp, his dislocated shoulder sending twinges of pain along his nerves. Sherlock felt when his doctor's injured arm slipped from around his waist, and concluded that it was more than high-time for John to be resting in bed.

"Come along, John," he whispered, "that shoulder needs rest if it's going to heal properly."

John sighed against the flesh before him, making the detective shiver. "If I could sleep for more than five minutes without thinking I was going to wake up in Africa, I would."

So, the doctor feared waking up far from home just as much as Sherlock feared his friend's absence. An interesting - and oddly soothing - thought. "I could play for you?"

John's chuckle warmed every inch of Sherlock's frame as it vibrated through his chest. "Fixed your bow, did you?"

A short bout of silence answered him before the detective carefully detached himself. "No, but I looked in the case an hour ago, trying to decide if I should or not, and everything was fine."

Puzzled, John watched Sherlock approach his violin case as if it were a live, wild animal. The detective switched on one of the mismatched desk lamps and carefully unlatched and lifted the top of the violin's case. Sherlock gasped in surprise and reverently stroked the instrument.

John sidled up beside his friend and hummed appreciatively. Instead of the dull wood violin, the Stradivarius glittering in the flickering light (Going to have to change that bulb, aren't you, John?) looked brand new, though still with the scratches showing how it had been lovingly abused. Gently, Sherlock lifted it and the bow in his skilled hands, tracing the beautiful wood of the instrument's body and the perfectly tightened horsehair of the bow.

The doctor smiled up at his companion's blank, surprised face. "She must like you, Sherlock. It's not often She fixes things without a reason."

"Your White Lady did this? Was that why she was here?" Sherlock's voice was slightly rough.

Shrugging caused John to wince in pain, "I don't really know. Maybe it's Her way of saying 'thank you'?"

Cradling the violin beneath his chin, Sherlock slid the bow across the strings. A pure A sang beautifully in the air, echoing around the flat at just the perfect pitch. The detective coaxed a full, vibrant quarter of some beautiful, familiar song that made John's hair stand on end. Each note of the music wrapped around the room, turning the cool night as warm as a spring afternoon. Even the dying echoes lent a seed of ringing beauty to the air.

Whispering as the heart-tugging sound dissipated, John asked, "Was that 'Hearts of Oak'?"

Sherlock's lips twitched as he stroked a finger along a sinuous curve, "Yes. It seemed appropriate somehow."

John's warm chuckle permeated the air, and the doctor wrapped his arm around the detective's waist, pressing his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder. Instead of tensing, all of Sherlock's muscles began to slowly relax, even as he reverently replaced the violin in her case. "Thank her for me?"

"I'm sure She knows, Sherlock." John backed up and yawned mightily. "Oh bloody hell, am I exhausted."

To John's complete surprise, Sherlock yawned as well, turning to settle his arm over the doctor's shoulders. "Come along, soldier. You deserve all the rest you can get, and for once I can actually say I, too, am utterly knackered and would relish some sleep."

At the staircase, they parted, and John made the slightest of annoyed whimpers as he limped to the bottom of the stairs up to his room. Sherlock turned in the hallway to his own bedroom, watching the doctor steel himself to ascend the steps. Very suddenly, he didn't want the man to disappear into the upper floor, the fear of everything having been a dream breaking back into his psyche.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You don't," the detective's voice was soft and hesitant, "er, you don't have to go up there if you don't feel up to it."

In the half-light, John's eyes were a lovely shade of navy as he turned to regard the man a few steps away. With an awkward half-hop, the doctor resettled his feet on the landing and waited. Sherlock reached out a hand in silent, shy invitation, glancing in a sort of detached way at the wall. A few stilted steps were all the warning he got before a warm, callused hand slid home against his palm.

There was a lump somewhere in both men's throats, silencing any attempt at speech, as Sherlock lead the way into his surprisingly clean bedroom. His inner sanctum was one of the few places Sherlock did not conduct experiments, although the desk in one corner was haphazardly littered with books and papers. Releasing the doctor's hand, Sherlock quietly settled himself beneath his warm duvet and closed his eyes.

Every move John made as he made his way to the other side of the mattress was loud, but unobtrusive, in Sherlock's ears. The way the man wriggled to get comfortable, immediately heating up the space beneath the sheets like a furnace, made the detective smirk. John's movements quieted with a soft sigh of contentment.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, eyes closed, and stretch an arm across the no-man's land between them, wrapping slender fingers around John's thick wrist. After a long moment, the feeling of John's pulse thudded against his fingertips, and the detective let out a quiet hum of satisfaction. Darkness tugged at the corners of his mind, and he barely registered the feeling of John rolling towards him before sleep overtook him.

.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Whatever was buzzing angrily somewhere behind him was going to get pounded with a hammer, and then dipped in acid, if it didn't shut the bloody hell up in the next few seconds. It was the first time Sherlock had ever woken up warm and comfortable in thirty-plus years, and nothing was going to tear him away from the firm, cozy thing beneath him. He shut his eyes tightly, and strengthened the grip he had on his delicious smelling pillow.

From somewhere slightly above and under him, a sleep-darkened voice rumbled, "Sherlock, if you don't answer your bloody phone, either it's going to throw a fit or I am, and if it's me, your phone is going to come out the worse for it."

Okay, the phone was on vibrate, so what was John playing at coming downstairs and complai…oh. OH. Warm, comfortable, squishy thing beneath him was not a pillow, then. Sherlock opened one eye experimentally as the phone let up its incessant noise-making.

His face was cradled in the hollow of John's neck and good shoulder, and John's right arm was wrapped around his back, the hand a heavy (but welcome) weight at Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's own right arm was stretched over John's midsection, his hand wrapped around John's left arm. Oh, and that was embarrassing; Sherlock's right leg from the knee down had somehow become wrapped around John's leg.

Sherlock was caught between wanting to leap out of the bed and flee the room, and not moving so John didn't wake up further and notice their positions. Both men cursed softly as the phone started to buzz again, shaking so hard it was probably dancing across the top of the table. The hand at Sherlock's waist squeezed before removing itself to rub at John's eyes.

"Answer it so I can go back to sleep, please? It's been vibrating for hours."

Choosing to follow John's example and ignore their current predicament, Sherlock carefully extracted himself and rolled over. "Why did you not wake me?"

"I tried kicking you, but then you threw your leg over mine and threatened to experiment on my jumpers with moths if I didn't 'desist'."

A noncommittal hum left Sherlock's throat as he checked the caller ID on his mobile while studying his flatmate in his peripheral vision. John's dark blonde hair was sticking up in a frankly adorable way, and the man had thrown his right arm over his eyes to shut out the daylight. There seemed to be no tension in any of the muscles Sherlock could see, and there was no flush of embarrassment either. Both absences boded well for the detective, but it was hard to tell just how awake John really was, and when the realization of their prior positions would sink in.

"Just Mycroft. Completely unimportant. I'll text him later."

John's right arm extended itself across the bed and he rolled his head to the side, piercing Sherlock with eyes a startling shade of sleepy sapphire. Heat pooled somewhere in his gut as John's gaze lazily swept up and down his body. Sherlock only unfroze when John yawned suddenly, breaking the contact.

"If he wanted to text you, he'd text you. Just call him back. He'll just send Lestrade over if you don't, and I am not even going to attempt explaining anything to him right now."

Grumbling but obliging, Sherlock dialed his brother and (in the spirit of scientific integrity, you understand) rolled back over until he was once again settled against John's chest. The doctor let out a soft sigh, curving his right arm until his hand was right back at the spot on Sherlock's waist it had previously vacated. For good measure, the detective slipped his leg back over John's and got a chuckle and a squeeze in reply.

"Ah, Sherlock, glad to see John has finally made you see reason. Exactly how long did you think I would wait before dropping by?" Mycroft's voice was annoyingly smug this early in the morning. Oh wait, did that clock say 11?

"What do you want, brother dear," Sherlock spat into the receiver, "I was in the middle of a very important experiment."

"Yes, I'm sure you were." Lord, he just wanted to smack that smarmy smugness right off his brother's face. "Just thought that I would graciously inform you that we may or may not have missed a link in Moriarty's chain."

Sherlock sat up so fast his head spun, "What?"

"Lestrade will be by around one or two in the afternoon, I suspect. Ta, brother dear." The line cut to a dial tone as Mycroft hung up.

John was a little slower at sitting up, wincing as his shoulder complained about the movement. "What is it?"

He stared down at the phone, a trace of disbelief on his face, before he answered, "Mycroft says I missed someone. Something? Someone."

A heavy sigh was all the reaction Sherlock received before the bed started to dip as John struggled to get his feet to the floor. After a short minute, John chuckled, "You need a shorter bed. I'll make us some tea and scrounge something up for lunch, yeah?"

The sight of a strip of the golden skin of John's back as he stretched silenced Sherlock's protest against eating. He cleared his throat a little too loudly, gaining a confused gaze as John rounded the bed and moved slowly to the door. When the heavy silence, and Sherlock's powerful stare, got to be just a tad too uncomfortable, John stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

"What?"

"I missed someone in Moriarty's web. We're still in danger. And we just woke up together after spending the night in the same bed."

John leaned against the door jamb, trying to take pressure off his ankle, and raised an eyebrow, "Problem?"

"Surprisingly, no."

"Good." John smiled crookedly. "We'll have a nice little bit of mystery and then home in time for tea."

Sherlock returned the smile with a wicked smirk of his own, "Could be a little more complicated than that. And dangerous."

With the deliberate slowness of a stalking lion, John approached the side of the bed, smile unfaltering. Sherlock fidgeted with the phone in his hands, unwilling to break the small staring contest they seemed to find themselves in. Goosebumps littered the flesh of his arm as John's right hand slid along the bare skin of his bicep and up to tangle in the dark curls at the nape of his neck. He sucked in a little gasp of air as John pulled their faces thrillingly close.

Sherlock could actually feel his pupils dilating as his pulse began to race. To his amazement, John's pupils were blown so wide there was little more than a sliver of slate grey at their rims. The detective could feel the heat as John's tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"Good thing I thrive on danger, then." As John's mouth pressed softly against his, Sherlock gripped the phone tighter in his hands. Pulling back with a funny little smile, John spoke in a voice full of promise, "No one will ever separate us again, Sherlock. There's no stopping us now."

Once more their lips pressed together, and at the sensation of John's tongue sliding along his bottom lip, the detective's phone fell to the floor with a clatter. All of Sherlock's muscles went completely slack until the kiss deepened. One hand fisted in the front of John's soft t-shirt, while the other traveled up into the doctor's disheveled hair to pull the man even closer. Sherlock groaned as John's hum of approval pulsed through his nerve endings.

This was going to take a lot more experimentation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Throws confetti in the air* We have reached the long awaited conclusion of this story!  
> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> I'm still not sorry, by the way. ~.^


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